


Volatilis

by recreational



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Dragon & Human Interactions, Dragon Sherlock, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-02-19 06:16:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 80,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2377883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recreational/pseuds/recreational
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becoming a custodian for a traumatised dragon means that John Watson has to force himself to see the man behind the scales. Yet the real challenge begins when that man makes his appearance again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There were happy times when I was still betaing dragonlock, and wow, I loved it – much to my own surprise. Only that I kept pestering the reluctant author for more dragon and less human. Constantly. So this story emerged from a plot bunny of those brighter days of my fanfiction writing.  
> 

“What about… drinks are on me the next we’re at the pub?” Mike suggested and John sighed.

“Can’t you just let it go?” John leaned back into the uncomfortable cafeteria chair. Around him the chattering of doctors and nurses provided a soothing atmosphere, but what he had hoped would become a relaxing lunch break on an uneventful Monday was slowly turning into a _talk_. Without much appetite, John pierced some more of his chips only to lay down his fork in the end.

“You know I won’t,” Mike said confidently, ignoring the signs of discomfort. “You’ve been back for a year, got rid of the cane, and don’t get startled each time someone slams a door, so I’m officially declaring you fit for society again. It’s time for you to meet someone.”

“But there isn’t _anyone_ I’m interested in,” John retorted.

“You’re not supposed to marry, for God's sake! Just go out once in a while!” Mike rolled his eyes. “So I’m topping my offer from before. I’ll buy the drinks the next _two_ times if you do as much as _try_ to get a date today. Beer just for the mere effort, John! It can’t get any better!”

John rubbed his temples. “I don’t know…”

“There’s this nurse from paediatrics who’s single at the moment. I could hook you up with her.”

“Liz?” John shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“Then perhaps that flamboyant young dermatologist? He’s something like the superstar of the second floor.”

Mike grinned when John glanced around hectically.

“Stop with that nonsense!” he hissed. “This is not funny! Why do you even think I... damn it, Mike!”

“Oh, come on. You were in the cricket team at uni, and it was painfully obvious that you were rather bad at cricket, to say the least.”

“And what has that–?”

“Let’s just say I saw you with the reason for your sudden interest in that sport.”

John compressed his lips. It was clear that Mike had been savouring this information for such a moment. _That bastard_.

“Those warm summer nights, all the sweat…” Mike continued. “You were quite a sight, the two of you, making out in the showers, but I have to give it to you, Donaldson was one handsome bloke.”

“Yeah, thanks for the memories,” John said to make sure he wouldn’t go into more detail. It was bad enough that Mike had actually seen him and had stored away the image just to conjure it up in a moment like this. “So basically you’re telling me that your pestering will get worse if I don’t give in, is that it?”

“Bravo, John.”

Annoyed, John crossed his arms on his chest. There had to be a way out of this. Something to get Mike off his tail and avoid an annoying date at the same time.

“What about Molly?” John asked.

“From the lab?”

“She seems to be nice enough.” And too shy to say no to a date. Apart from that, she wasn’t exactly his type, which meant that they wouldn’t end up in bed together. _Perfect_.

Mike shrugged. “Fine with me. So off you pop.”

“I’m supposed to ask her _now_? We’re at work!”

“Rubbish. Get down to that basement immediately.”

“You know what? I’m not really hungry anyway. At least not anymore,” John huffed. “See you later.” He stood up and grabbed his tray.

“Good luck!” he heard a voice call after him. Of course nothing could deter Mike when he was on a mission, John thought to himself. So why not let some of this peculiar enthusiasm rub off for a change? The tray with the dishes landed on the counter with a clatter and, using his sudden burst of energy, John headed for the lift.

 _But whatever Mike thinks, he’s wrong,_ John decided when he stepped into the cage. _It doesn’t matter if everything looks normal from the outside!_ There was still a fundamental problem. Somehow, a vital part of himself had become lost during the previous years – and not just in Afghanistan. Perhaps this had been the reason he had decided to join the forces in the first place.

John greeted a colleague passing when he went down the hallway towards the labs, but the need to stop and talk simply wasn’t there. Even with Mike it was the same sometimes. Going to the pub, meeting him in the cafeteria seemed a waste of time because there was no real connection.

But talk about the hospital, football and politics was fine, much better than what was to come now. Reluctantly, John entered the lab, hoping that Molly Hooper would be having lunch somewhere.

 _She wouldn’t. She’s just as much as a recluse as you are,_ he reminded himself. _Maybe we’ll get along after all._

“Hello?” he asked.

“Huh?” Out of nowhere, Molly appeared behind a counter. “Oh John, hello, I’ve just been searching for…” she smiled and then rubbed her hands on her gown. “Never mind. What can I do for you?”

John closed the door. “Well, I...” He cleared his throat. “I’m here on a, erm, private matter.”

“Oh.” She didn’t take a step forwards. If anything, she looked a bit alarmed.

“I was just wondering if you, not immediately but sometimes, I mean if you don’t have anything else to do or anyone else...” John stopped. Was he a teenager? Why on earth couldn’t he speak normally to that poor woman? Molly gave the impression that she was ready to bolt. “This isn't coming out right.” John took a deep breath. “What I actually wanted to do is ask you out. If you’re interested, that is.”

He approached her a little more and noticed that she didn’t retreat. Her expression became questioning, which did not necessarily have to be a bad sign.

“You? Want to go out with me? Why?” she asked.

John let his shoulders drop. “I’m not going to lie, Mike’s been nagging me to ask someone and well, your name came up.”

“So, that’s–”

“Don’t get me wrong!” John interjected. “I thought of you because you’re... you’re nice, yes.”

He smiled at her and she gradually seemed to become a bit more relaxed.

“I don’t know, John. You think we two...?”

“We could meet as friends,” he hastened to say. “Spend some time together. Better than being alone, I mean... I... I don’t want to insinuate that you are, just if...”

Exhausted, John sat down on one of the stools. This was the exact mess he had anticipated. God, he was out of form.

“I suppose you’re right,” he heard and he raised his head again. Shuffling on the spot, Molly appeared to have the same problems formulating a sentence. “And I would really like to... go out, but it’s not been that long ago that Bernard and I, you know, and I don’t want the hospital to start gossiping again.”

 _Bernard the Shark_. Why Molly had fallen prey to the womanising head of cardiology was a complete miracle to John. The breakup had come as a relief, yet the damage had been done. Since then, stories about Molly’s role in the whole affair circulated among the staff and John suspected they were a fabrication of Bernard himself to cover up the despicable way he had behaved.

“We could go to my place. So we won’t run the risk of being seen by someone,” John suggested. “It’s not big, though. But it’s got a table we could have… dinner at.”

“So we won’t become the talk of the town again?”

“Nope. Just friends. Just dinner.” John got up. “How does that sound?”

“Sounds good.” Her smile proved that she really meant it. “Perhaps this Friday?”

“Great, should I pick you up? We can’t leave together from work, can we?”

They grinned conspiratorially.

“Nah, I’ll find the address if you send it to me.” She went to her desk and scribbled. “That’s my mobile number.”

John pocketed the slip of paper she handed him.  “Thanks, and I, well, yes, I’m... till next week.”

 _It’s actually nice to look forward to something… or someone,_ John thought on his way upstairs. Just the pub with Mike felt a bit repetitive sometimes and perhaps Mike was of the same opinion and wanted to get rid of him for a while?

“Now what’s your report, doctor?” John heard and whipped around. Mike had positioned himself at the entrance to the internal station and his cheerful face told John the former suspicions were unfounded. Mike just couldn’t help being a good friend, as always.

“I did it, okay?” John said under his breath.

Mike slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re the man!”

“We’ll meet next Friday at my place.”

“Your place? Hadn’t taken you for–”

“Now that’s enough,” John cut him short. “Really. We want to avoid that kind of talk.”

“No problem, John, my lips are sealed.” Another pat. “Well done.”

The sense of accomplishment coursing through him seemed almost ridiculous, but during the afternoon it kept returning, lightening John’s mood considerably. On his way home, he got out a station earlier to stroll through his neighbourhood and enjoy the unusual energy he felt. He already regretted his decision the minute he started walking down the dark street. The usual light drizzle was increasing rapidly, emptying the street and slicking the pavement.

John wiped some of the moisture from his brows. It was still a mile left to go and if he took some of the side streets, he could cut his way short – preferably before it started to rain heavily. Before he turned around a corner, he heard voices and, expecting some drunks who had started early, he fixed his eyes on the ground to keep out of trouble.

“Grab the leg!” he heard. “Hold it fast, you idiot, and watch out for the claws!”

 _Claws?_ John looked up. Squinting, he tried to discern what was going on. A small group of municipal workers in their reflective gear were fighting with someone John could not see clearly. He inched nearer.

“It wants to get back into the drain!” The barriers securing the roadworks were torn down when the dark figure threw half of the men off and they stumbled into the construction site. Speechlessly John stared at the creature that was now illuminated by the entrance light of an adjoining building. A dragon! Those men were really wrestling a dragon!

 _But dragons in the sewer system are the same ludicrous urban myth as crocodiles, right?_ John wondered. And why didn’t it revert to its human form? The men wouldn’t handle it so roughly if it was... normal.

The dragon cried out in a low pitched voice. It rose to its legs for a moment before the men pulled it down again and John was astonished to see that it was just a little taller than them. But the long tail seemed to be a force to be reckoned with as it strained against the hands holding it, curling and twisting like a snake.

The workers charged at the dragon in a renewed attempt to subdue it and panicking, the creature tried to slip away from them. When its escape was stopped again, it looked as if it gave up, the wings that had been useless until now – almost as if the dragon didn’t know what to do with them – were hanging completely limp. It seemed to muster the effort to stay on its feet but that was about it.

“Can’t you see that it’s no threat anymore? Leave it alone!”

The pairs of eyes directed at him made John aware that he himself must have uttered those words.

“Bugger off, mate!” one of the men shouted. “We’ve got a situation here, but it’s under control.”

John felt his fists clench and took some steps until he was facing down the heap of limbs plus tail.

“I said leave him alone, you’ve got no right to attack a citizen in such a way!”

Searching for someone who would meet his eye, John found two intelligent green orbs in the end, but they turned away immediately when the commotion started again. One of the men had grabbed a wing, tearing at it, and this seemed to overstep a boundary. All of a sudden, the dragon bared two rows of sharp teeth, the short snout drawn back. John forced himself to remain unmoved.

“Let that wing go!” he barked, and if it was this command or the threat of the teeth, the man really let it loose. The dragon faced John again and fascinated John saw the features soften, the dull grey scales not twitching with nervous muscle movement under them anymore, and the frown in the silver streaks over its eyes easing.

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay here,” he said and the snarl that had still left the dragon’s canines visible vanished. John marvelled at the curiously human looks in that reptile face, which were mixed with the traits of a predator in such an astounding fashion. A silver brow furrowed, but before John could make out what this meant, he heard a car honk and tires screeching. Not daring to take his eyes off the scene before him, John didn't look up when a car door was opened.

“Let him go, you idiots!” The angry voice finally made John turn his head. He saw a dark clad man quickly crossing the street from where the black limousine stood parked in second row. “If you continue that one minute longer, the London airspace will be swarming with dragons.”

“Sir, it attacked a sewer cleaning team!”

John tried to keep track of what was going on, his eyes flitting between the man from the limousine and the worker who had been speaking and who was currently holding on to the dragon’s neck. “Stop whining, will you?” An umbrella was pointed at the worker. “I’m sure it was the other way round. Why else would he have fled the sewage? And now away with you!”

The umbrella wielder positioned himself next to John.

“But it–” another worker began.

“Stop it, you moron! Or do you want to risk him breathing fire?” the man beside John seethed. His voice could barely be heard over the background noise of the traffic but it was so cutting that John could see the dragon’s attackers freeze with respect. “Do you want London to become a second Rome? A bunch of navvies end Vespasian’s Human-Dragon Accord? Is that it?”

Hectically, the men released their catch.

“No, of course not, Sir,” the spokesman from before assured him.

The dragon shook its head as if to rid himself of a bothersome insect but it didn’t rise to its hind legs. Instead it looked away from the posh new arrival and studied John, who couldn’t help getting a bit apprehensive in the focus of those green eyes. But something was wrong, no matter how daunting the vertical slit pupils appeared.

“Are you all right?” he asked. The stance at the feet of everyone else was so contrary to the image of dragons in the media that John was close to stepping forwards and performing some basic medical checks.

 _On a dragon, yeah. Get a grip!_ he thought inwardly. To his relief, the creature stretched its front legs, but only to make a dive for the drain and disappear in it. The tail knocked one of the barriers over again before it disappeared, leaving behind a street looking like a surreal play, with a horde road workers monitoring a hole in the ground just for the sake of squandering taxpayers’ money.  

John turned to the man next to him. “What’s going on here?” he asked but was completely ignored. The man’s attention had been caught by the blue lights that had started to reflect on the walls. The police cars they belonged to followed suit – siren’s still switched off – and before John knew it, they blocked the entire area.

“Ah, Lestrade. Finally,” the umbrella owner said and hurried towards a man getting out of one of the cars. Gesticulating wildly, the officer appeared to try to explain himself, but John couldn’t understand what he was saying. The fact that a very stern look of the other man directly spurred him into action showed the power relations clearer than anything, though.

“You come here!” he shouted and motioned the workers to move nearer. John took a step back. “You there! I said come here!”

Torn between meeting the officer’s command with a rebuff and complying, John remained where he was and ended up in between the workers who assembled around him.

“Now listen carefully,” the officer said. In his trench coat and suit, John assumed that he was at least a sergeant. “You’re very lucky that nothing has happened apart from some dirty clothes, okay? You attacked an innocent citizen as a group and I’m this close to having you tried for racial assault!”

The men murmured something unintelligible.

“Now shut it and clean up this mess!” the officer barked. “And if I get wind of any of you talking to anyone, let alone a reporter, you can bet that there’ll be an investigation after all, have I made myself clear?”

The men dispersed, busying themselves with the boards around the construction site. John glanced towards the figure in the posh clothes. Leaning on his umbrella, the man looked exceptionally pleased with the performance of the police.

“Now what are you waiting for, huh?” John heard, startling him out of abstraction. The officer – what had he been called? Listerd? – fixed him with an impatient gaze.

“Just that you know, I tried to protect that... the dragon,” John replied and the man heaved an annoyed sigh.

“I don’t care what you are – nosey bystander or accidental hero,” he growled. “The directions I gave those nitwits apply to you as well.”

John felt his anger soaring. _Calm down,_ he ordered himself. _You don’t want to be the one sleeping in a cell tonight!_

“Thanks for reminding me that civil courage’s really worth the effort!” he scoffed instead. “Where were you when I was still lying in the Afghan sand?”

Without waiting for an answer, John turned to go. The brief glimpse he caught of the officer’s face was enough to see that he was on the verge of apologising for his harsh words, but John decided that he had had enough. This damn evening was already much too weird and had effectively ruined his good mood.

 _Bloody city and its lunatics lurking in every corner!_ he swore inwardly. _And if even the dragons are going daft, this town’s lost for good._

 


	2. Chapter 2

John rolled over to face the wall and shut out the dim light peeking through the curtains. On a day when he had just a part late shift, he wasn’t going to get up any earlier than necessary.

_ Bloody administration, _ he thought and closed his eyes again. They were still refusing him a full-time contract, though ‘refusing’ was a bit harsh, it was rather Thomas, one of the board members, who talked him out of accepting a full commitment each time John considered it. Yes, they needed him, but no, John should spare himself the workload and enjoy life before he sold himself to yet another soul-sucking institution. Those had been pretty much his words.

John hoped to doze off again and for a moment, he felt the weightlessness of sleep lifting him until he was rudely dragged back to earth.

_ Those eyes. _ The dragon had begged him for something with them, but John couldn’t think of a reason for the desperation he had seen. However, the whole rest of the previous evening – and John suspected even in his dreams – the eyes of the dragon had haunted him. It was practically impossible that the creature had been hurt because they didn’t usually get injured, not even in their human form. So its whole demeanour, as subdued and frightened as it had appeared, had been calling out to all of John’s instincts.

_ The  _ man _! Not the creature! _ John reminded himself. Limousine guy had at least made  _ that  _ clear.

Defeated, John folded back the blanket and got up to fetch his laptop from the shelf. Somewhere amidst the vast number of web pages dedicated to dragons there had to be an explanation for the extraordinary behaviour he had witnessed the day before. He clicked through pseudo-scientific essays and blogs of self-declared experts, yet nothing really substantial resulted from his search, the information was rather getting more and more dubious. The only reliable snippets were common knowledge, like the fact that dragons only lived in their human form – apart from a cult in Eastern Siberia – and that there had not been a single recorded fire incident since Nero’s fatal outburst.

_ But why wasn’t the dragon able to throw off the men? _ John wondered. His strength should have sufficed to take on at least ten times as many! It had almost looked like he was weakened and at the same time reluctant to defend himself. 

Perhaps he had been old? No, just their human mimicry exterior aged, they didn’t. They simply became dust after roughly a hundred years, when suddenly their volatile molecular cohesion failed.

John closed the laptop. Tea.  _ That _ was what he needed now. And a piece of the dry cake he had been forced to take home from nurse Catherine’s birthday two days ago. Ten minutes later, he was chewing his way through the tasteless Madeira cake, washing it down with copious amounts of tea. But the distraction he had hoped for failed to materialise.

He fetched the newspaper and switched on the telly, taking his mind off the night before until his grumbling belly and a commercial for candles featuring a dragon pulled him from his stupor. The sandwich he made was just as tasteless as the cake.

_ Damn it, why can’t I just let it rest and be done with it? _ he wondered. Annoyed, he grabbed his wallet and dressed to leave. He had to find out what was wrong with that man who had chosen to live in the sewers as a dragon, and if the government didn’t care,  _ someone _ had to.

John stormed downstairs and hurried towards the street of his strange nightly encounter. Fortunately, there weren’t any workers and the barriers didn’t cover the entrance to the drain completely. John was sure that the concrete manhole cover could be lifted with one or two of those metal levers he had seen other navvies use, but now, in broad daylight, any attempt to open it would be suspicious. During the night, though, the street was rather deserted.

And the lever? Where could he get it? A DIY warehouse would not necessarily have stocked it, but there was someone who had all kinds of tools: Carl, the caretaker of his building. The key to his garage was still hanging on John’s key rack because as a doctor and veteran, Carl had deemed him worthy of having direct access to this treasure.

John looked at his watch. If he went to Barts now, he would be an hour early but could deal with some of the paperwork and leave on time in the evening. Then returning home, eating, dressing in something shabby and then getting the tool – no, better the other way round, in case someone saw him. And if he was lucky and it was raining, he wouldn’t have to wait very long because no one would be in the street anymore.

_ This is bloody London, of course it’s going to rain,  _ he corrected himself.

Avoiding Mike was the biggest challenge, but John skirted the places where they usually ran into each other. Lying to Mike had never been his forte, so if Mike asked him what he was up to, John feared that he would tell him the truth. And a lecture about how wise it was to roam the London sewers was not on John’s agenda although it  _ felt _ right to search the dragon.

To John’s relief, the rest of the day flew by without any unexpected interruptions and John still didn’t doubt his actions when he slipped into Carl’s garage and pocketed something that looked like the fitting tool. Only when he approached the barriers around the manhole did reality claw at him, making him uncomfortable for the first time on that day. Not even the light rain had managed to achieve this.

He hid in an entrance with a direct view of the roadworks and drew in a deep breath. As someone who had sworn to protect the people of this country he  _ had _ to go down there. The man in the sewers was in need because an attack like yesterday had never occurred in a similar manner, so much had become clear from his research. Dragons didn’t stick together, but when one of them was distressed, a telepathic connection was activated and London airspace should have looked like the umbrella showoff had said it would.

It was rumoured that several hundred dragons had destroyed an American facility in which one of their own had been sedated to carry out experiments on him. This resulted in over a hundred human deaths, and the following international outcry had put an end to any programmes of that sort. But that had been in the sixties.

So if a sedated dragon activated all of Northern America, an event like yesterday should have led to more damage than it had. A lot more. 

Plucking up his courage, John stepped forwards and pushed the iron bar through one of the holes in the cover. With all of his strength, he lifted it and pulled it to the side, and before he drew anyone’s attention to what he was doing, he quickly climbed down the iron steps embedded in the wall. At the end of his descent, he cautiously felt for some sort of base with his feet and found it, and the torch revealed that he would be able to walk in the narrow brick tunnel. 

Blocking out the stench that became almost unbearable after the first steps, John thanked his foresight to roll up his trousers and wear his sturdiest boots. The muddy sludge of the active sewer only covered his feet and hopefully wouldn’t get much higher. 

“Hello?” he asked and then stumbled over an obstacle in the water. Supporting himself on the wall, John stepped forwards, but the more he left the entrance, the less convinced he became of his quest. Would the dragon still be around? It – no  _ he _ – had probably left the area after having been disturbed.

The tunnel in front of him forked. John decided to take the direction with less rats scurrying away in the beam of his torch.  _ What was the dragon eating down here anyway? _ flashed through his head and he suppressed an unappetising image his mind conjured up.

“Dragon? It’s me, are you all right?” he shouted.

No one answered, and after walking down the tunnels for what felt like another mile, John decided to turn around. He wasn’t completely convinced he’d find his way back to the entrance after all the turns he had taken – a thought worrying him almost as much as the patient he believed to be in the sewers – so he breathed a shallow sigh of relief when he passed the spot where the tunnel had branched off for the first time.

Eagerly aiming for the drain, he was caught unawares by a movement in the second tunnel. John whipped around and raised his torch only to feel it slip from his hands when green eyes reflected the beam.

Darkness enveloped him until he had got used to the residual light from the entrance. John felt his pulse hammering in his temples. The dragon was advancing. Slowly at first, then faster he approached John, who controlled his reactions that dictated him to bolt.

“There you are.” John gave a nervous laugh. “I just wanted to make sure you’re... unhurt. But you’re a dragon, so why shouldn’t you? So never mind. I didn’t want to, erm, bother you.”

A blinking of the eyes which came nearer still and then John could hear the dragon breathing.

“Pretty awful smell down here, isn’t it?” John croaked. “I mean, your kind’s said to be quite sensitive to that.”

The dragon obviously wasn’t interested in the smell of their surroundings. John could feel its breath, and the thought of the array of sharp teeth so near to his throat made him more than a little uneasy.

_ Dragons never attack humans for no reason. They  _ are _ human, _ he repeated inwardly when the creature he could only vaguely perceive in this light sniffed a path along his hairline.

“So if you–” John started and suddenly, the eyes appeared in front of him – just to be gone again.

Before John had the slightest chance to study the intriguing anatomy, the dragon turned around. Splashing could be heard, but it subsided quickly, and all that remained was the gurgling of the sludge at John’s feet.

“Okay, two failures in a row.” John shook his head and edged his way towards the entrance. From what he had experienced, the dragon seemed to be all right, though, and there was no reason to continue fretting about him. Happy to be greeted by even more water – this time from above and considerably less smelly than in the sewers – John closed the manhole and set off for home. An old lady passed him a little further down the street, but she unlocked the entrance to a block of flats and John kept on walking.

_ There’s no one else around, _ he assured himself. Everything was quiet. The occasional clatter or the shuffling he heard was nothing!  John blamed the shiver creeping up his spine on the fact that he was drenched, with water dripping down his nose and searching its path through the collar of his jacket.

Something rattled behind him when he could already see his house, and although he refused to stop, he simultaneously felt for the lever in his inner pocket.

_ I’m becoming paranoid, great! _ he sighed inwardly. Stubbornly, he walked on, even when he heard a sound of what was obviously a flower pot crashing on the ground. He only risked a backwards glance to make sure there wasn’t some drunk wreaking havoc in the neighbourhood, and that was the moment he saw it: something black had slithered down the steps to the basement of number 17.

At least he  _ thought  _ he saw it. John turned on his heels and ran back to the fence where he assumed his pursuer to be. In the darkness of the unlit entrance to the basement, barely anything could be seen – just the eyes that caught up every last trace of light and shone like they had in the tunnel before. Around them, the dark body was curled up like a ball, only visible when one knew what to look for.

“Are you following me?” John asked. “I thought you were all right. You  _ are _ all right, aren’t you?”

He received another blinking.

_ That’s your clue to leave, _ John reminded himself.  _ He’s just curious who you are. Just ignore him. _

The rustling he heard behind him proved that the dragon was still pursuing him, although the direction the sounds came from varied – sometimes John even got the impression that the dragon was climbing the porches of the houses on his way.

“You’re bloody loud for someone’s supposed to be as stealthy as hell,” John muttered. He took out his key to open the front door. “You’d scare the hell out of someone who didn’t know wha– ...!”

He jumped, startled when a large body thrust him aside to push the door open and get inside the house.

“Stop!” John shouted as subdued as he could. “Come back immediately!”

In the half-light of the hallway, he could see the dragon shaking his head vigorously.

“Oh, come on! I can’t take you upstairs!” John protested. “It’s too small there and, well, you’re… you…” John scrunched up his nose. “I’m afraid you stink.”

The dragon inclined his head, as if he was waiting for John to continue, but when John remained silent, the creature slowly stole outside again. Not distancing himself from the entrance further than the next doorway, he stood there, blinking a slow rhythm.

“You also can’t stay  _ there _ .”  _ And make yourself an easy target for idiots like yesterday, _ John added inwardly. He took a deep breath and defeated, he closed the door again and unlocked the gate to the courtyard instead. The dragon let himself be beckoned in.

“Okay, just for now. And I’m sure Carl has something for your problem,” John said and used the key to the garage door for the second time that night. He strained his eyes to discern what was in the shelves and on the floor because switching on the lights would arouse attraction.

A brush. And a plastic bucket – so he was at least settled for the basics. Closer inspection of the many bottles showed that the only detergents Carl stored in the garage were meant for his scooter. But they would be safe to handle for human hands, which meant they could be used on dragon scales too, couldn’t they?

“May I touch you?” John asked the shadow looming in the corner of the cracked doors.

A blinking.

Cautiously, John reached for the area where he assumed the shoulder would be and when his fingertips made contact with it, they met such an odd combination of vibrating life and sturdiness that John couldn’t resist laying his whole hand on the scales. Cold like its surroundings, the skin worked as an insulation and would always only be as warm as the temperature it was exposed to, John had read. However, the smoothness with which the scales were joined together was exceptional and John felt the strong muscles working under them, giving just a hint of the explosive power they possessed.

“Wow, you’re…” John began, but then abruptly let go of the body and grabbed the bucket. “Car wash’s okay, I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, snogandagrope, for helping me out although you're super busy.


	3. Chapter 3

John filled the bucket with water and poured a cap full of the car wash in it. “Sorry, it’s cold, but this won’t bother you, will it?” he asked. “Now move a little from the door a little and we’ll get over with this quickly, all right? Oh, and get those wings out of the way, if it’s possible.”

The shadow became a pronounced figure crouching between the leaves of the door, the wings pointing upwards like a sail. Without giving it much thought, John started with the area under them, scrubbing the small scales at the sides as if he was indeed cleaning a car. The longer scales that ran down the lower back needed a more exact treatment, although they weren’t very elevated. John was sure that the water rinsed out what might have got stuck between them.

Meticulously he worked his way down to the tail that was probably as long as the rest of the slender body. The scales at the top were slightly pointier here and John suspected that they were supposed to act as weapons in a fight – not that the dragon had used them in his encounter with the navvies. Measuring his steps, John estimated the length to be more than six feet and his guess was confirmed the moment the dragon raised the tail so that John could reach the underside.

“I’m a bloody dwarf,” he swore, standing on his toes. “Now get up and give me your forefeet or arms or whatever you prefer them to be called.”

John used the short break to open his jacket and rub his cold hands on his shirt before he took the toes – or fingers? – that were extended to him. The five digits were arranged in a lizard fashion, becoming increasingly longer from the little finger to the index finger. Yet whereas the claws looked alarmingly sharp, the thumb gave the foot an almost human appearance. With the claws in the way, grasping small objects wouldn’t be easy, John thought. Busying himself with the chest, he pushed a couple of gruesome images away because clutching something large would be no problem for claws like that.

“Roll over,” he ordered and the dragon complied. It felt odd to have the large creature at his feet. Something was definitely wrong, no matter if there had been no traces of injuries where John had cleaned the skin. To at least make the situation less awkward, he decided that starting with the toes would be the best option, and he had already reached the hind legs when he suddenly hesitated again.

 _Damn, you’re a doctor,_ he admonished himself. He had given sponge baths, so this was the same. And dragons even had their genitalia covered under a skin fold.

He peeked at the slightly elevated area some inches above the root of the tail. The dragon surely had no reservations, as relaxed as he lay sprawled out on the ground.

“Okay, in case this is too intrusive, signal me to stop, all right? Just don’t bite my head off,” John said.

Scrubbing down the belly to the tail, John forced himself to focus on the texture of the skin rather than where exactly he was moving along. It was unusual that the dragon was dirty after all, only the length of the exposure must have caused the muck to creep into every nook and cranny, even overriding the scales’ repellent characteristics. If they changed their colour after getting cleaned, John could not tell, they looked as grey as they had the previous night.

“I don’t need the brush for the wings, do I?” John asked. The rags hanging over the bucket had looked relatively clean. They would do, as the wings were even smoother than the rest of the body and dirt would most likely not stick on them, even under the most adverse conditions.

“No wonder so many people wanted to get their hands on dragonhide,” John mused as he rubbed the broad expanse of skin between the wing’s bones. “That’s quite a material you’re sporting here.” Fireproof, almost indestructible and an unparalleled lotus effect – if it ever became possible to copy those wings, there’d be a fortune waiting for those who made some ingenious products with the material.

“Now the face, and then we’re done. Can you, well, stand or sit somehow so that you’re about my height?”

He could. Supporting himself on his tail like a kangaroo, the dragon managed to look straight at John.

“It’s strange that your eyes aren’t more at the side if your head.” _So they wouldn’t be able to muster me so curiously,_ John added inwardly. He rubbed the flat nose and the nostrils that had more in common with a mammal than a reptile – if it hadn’t been for the lipless mouth that formed an unusual line. “Good thing your teeth aren’t showing when your mouth’s closed. Would look quite terrifying otherwise.” John stroked over the cheek with his thumb. “How can those scales feel so delicate when, at the same time, they withstand fire? Ah, well, remind me to take cover behind you when someone with a flame thrower’s marching down the street.”

The dragon snorted.

“You have to work on that laugh,” John remarked.

Mopping the shimmering scales of the brows first and then following them until they passed into longer ones that covered what he assumed were the ears, John expected the procedure to be over when suddenly, the green eyes that had made him slightly self-conscious with their scrutiny, closed.

 _He likes it. Like Uncle Arthur’s dog._ A good ruffling of the fur would make it as mild as a dove. Only that fur was a lot easier to pet than this cross between scales and spines.

“Getting off all that soap’s going to take ages, so do you mind if I... use the hose?” John asked to stop the calming routine of tickling the dragon between his ears. _This isn’t a pet!_ “I mean, it might come across as, well, somewhat humiliating, but it’s just for the sake of finishing this, okay?”

There was no protest, not even after John had connected the hose and the tap. The dragon patiently endured being washed down with the weak jet and John was almost ready, when an angry hiss startled him out of his work. Before he could react, the dragon escaped into the garage to hide behind Carl’s scooter.

 _How can a dragon of roughly six feet five, with a tail of the same size, reduce himself to almost nothing?_ John wondered and searched for words to calm down the frightened creature. Perhaps the water had hit a sensitive spot.

“Look, I–” Someone cleared his throat and John spun around on his heels.

“Sorry to interrupt the ablutions,” a strangely familiar voice said, “but I think it’s time we get properly introduced.”

John retreated into the garage.

“Don’t worry, I come as a friend,” the voice continued. John squinted his eyes, but he didn’t need more than the shadow that now appeared between the doors. It was unmistakable. Even if it hadn’t been for the coat, the umbrella would have given limousine man of the previous night away. Barely discernible in the darkness, the figure stretched out a hand and reluctantly, John stepped forwards to take it.

“Mycroft Holmes.” The leather glove squeezed John’s fingers tightly.

“John Watson.”

“Doctor or Captain? Which one do you prefer?”

John withdrew his hand. “And how do you know that?” he ground out.

“Let’s say: I have my ways.”

John decided that a voice shouldn’t be able to send a shiver down his spine. But the combination of smoothness and determination got to him more than the shouting of that bastard of a sergeant during his first month in the army.

“Like yesterday, with that officer?” John asked. “So what are you? Her Majesty’s brand new dragon patrol?”

The Holmes guy huffed out a laugh. “No, in fact I’m just a relative. With influence.”

“A relative? Of whom?” John asked.

“Your new… friend, who else?” the shadow declared. “He’s my younger brother, to be precise.”

John knew that his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t bring himself to react more eloquently to this disclosure.

“The dragon?” he asked incredulously after a while.

“He’s called _Sherlock_ ,” Mycroft Holmes continued and John heard more than a hint of indignation. “And obviously he has chosen you as his, well... companion. So I see it necessary to let you in on certain facts.”

When the man fell quiet, John sneaked a peek at the corner of the garage where he knew the dragon was hiding. Not even the eyes could be seen.

Mycroft Holmes heaved a sigh. “Now then. Sherlock is thirty-four years old and you might have wondered why he’s living in his dragon form. All you need to know is that due to an unfortunate event he hasn’t changed into a human for almost ten years. Yet further information touches state secrets.”

Rolling his eyes wouldn’t help in the darkness, John reckoned, but the secretive fuss of the man started to unnerve him.

“Is all of this leading somewhere eventually?” he hissed. “Why are you here? To pick him up?”

“Good God, no. He would never come with me,” Mycroft Holmes stated with conviction. “No, he’s going to stay with _you_.”

As if to make his point, the figure stepped back and now John could at least see the features of the man – and there wasn’t the slightest bit of doubt on that face. He really meant what he said.

“ _Stay_ with me? Are you crazy?” John asked. “My flat’s basically a bedsit!”

“Would you rather leave him in the sewage system?”

“Of course not,” John answered immediately.

“Don’t you have extra space in this building? An attic? A cellar?”

“I have a compartment in the cellar, yes. But that’s not a place to live…”

John searched the garage again and was greeted by green eyes. No, leaving him here was impossible and sending him back into the sewers was equally unthinkable.

“Sherlock, right?” John asked.

The dragon just blinked whilst all kinds of scenarios raced through John’s head, from unpleasant encounters with the razor-sharp teeth to neighbours calling the police. He had to decide, though.

“Okay,” he pressed out. “You’ll stay in the flat tonight and tomorrow we’ll see how exactly we can make this work.” John faced the other man again. “So, Mr Holmes–”

“Call me Mycroft.”

“Well, _Mycroft_ , what am I supposed to do now? I mean, you brother’s... How do I…?” John wrung his hands.

Mycroft was on the verge of answering but then paused. “I shouldn’t interfere too much,” he said in the end and a sad look stole on his face. “You’re a doctor and a soldier, you’ll manage.”

“What?” John couldn’t believe the man’s nerve when Mycroft just threw him a thin smile and turned to go. “What does he even eat?”

“He’s a dragon, take a guess!” was the last information John was given before Mycroft turned to go.

“Wait!” John called out. He ran after him and saw him hurrying through the gate and vanishing around the corner. An engine was ignited and then the black limousine glided past the house. Defeated, John returned to the garage.

“A fine brother you’ve got here,” he told the waiting dragon. “Not exactly the helpful type.”

John looked around. It was time to make off, in this respect they should copy the elder Holmes’ example. So where did the cloth go? Was the tap closed? When John had finally put everything where it belonged, he beckoned Sherlock to follow him.

“Now come with me, before I change my mind.”

As earlier that night, the dragon hurried past John, waiting for him in a corner until he unlocked the front door.

“So do you think you could try to be a bit… more quiet?” John asked before he pulled the door open. “It’s not the best idea to wake the entire house. Mrs McGrath would have a heart attack if she peeked into the staircase.”

There weren’t any flower pots but John suspected that a careless move of the tail would sound like a Chinese gong if it hit one of the doors. Thankful for the fact that the stairs were made of stone and not of squeaking wood, John watched Sherlock set his front legs on the stair that was half up the flight and then make his hind legs follow on the lowest step in a rather clumsy fashion.

“Second floor,” John hissed and locked the front door. He ran after Sherlock, attempting to tiptoe at the same time, and as quickly as he could, he opened his flat’s door to let Sherlock in.

“So that’s my, erm… castle,” John said. He turned around to take off his jacket. “Make yourself at home.”

 _He obviously already has,_ John noted with some astonishment after switching on the light. Stretched out on the flokati his sister Harry had once forced on him, Sherlock looked like an enormous puppy that revelled in the first contact with a new and surprisingly pleasant material. John suppressed his instinctive notion to take some steps and then tickle the dragon’s belly like he would have done with Arthur’s dog.

“Are you hungry?” he asked instead and aimed for the fridge. It had been three days since he had last been to the shops, so there would be barely anything to eat for a human – let alone for a dragon. “Well, mayonnaise, cheddar and, oh yes, what about cold meat?”

The dragon inclined his head and John took out the pastrami and the ham. “And now? I guess cutlery’s out of the question.” Tentatively, he put out his hand while Sherlock slowly approached. The slightly shorter front legs always gave the impression that this creature shouldn’t walk on four legs but stand upright. Self-conscious about the way he presented the meat, John was tempted to get a plate and make the whole procedure more civilised, when suddenly Sherlock pounced. Sharp teeth flashed and then the meat was snatched from John’s hand.

“Okay, you’ve got your own cutlery… of sorts,” John said. He studied his hand and found it intact, but the panic that had travelled through him was refusing to abate quickly. “I’ll be back, I’ll just…” He pointed to the only other door in the flat.

In the safety of his bathroom, John contemplated what he was to do now. _First I’ve got to calm down, damn it!_ Just because Sherlock could rip him apart in more than one way, this wouldn’t necessarily happen. No, this would _never_ happen, the elder Holmes could sweep a lot under the rug, but a dead doctor was a bit too much.

Okay, then, important things first. It was almost three in the morning, so they had to sleep. The questions was: would the dragon stay on the rug? The shelf between the main space of the room and the bed could provide them with at least a minimum of privacy.

 _Hell, privacy,_ John thought to himself and stepped under the shower _. I just scrubbed him from head to claw._

As quickly as possible, John got rid of the last remains of the sewers, washing his hair twice make sure the stink was completely gone. After he had put on his pyjamas and prepared to leave the bathroom, he stopped.

_A dragon. In my flat. Spending the night._

John exhaled and pressed the door handle. All of this couldn’t be a fraction as dangerous as dozing off in the Afghan sand, a sniper on his tail. Even then he had managed to get some sleep, so a dragon with an unexplainable attachment to him should pose no problem, he decided. In the living room, Sherlock had really returned to his former position on the flokati, now rubbing his snout and throat along the wool, snorting faintly each time some of the long pile tickled his nostrils.

“Better than the sewers, right?” John remarked and took a big step over the tail that slid over the wood like a devious tripping hazard. “So you’ll stay there? On the rug?” _God, I already sound like Uncle Arthur,_ John admonished himself. The poor man had been constantly talking to his dog. Maybe this had been the reason why he had failed to find a wife.

John switched off the ceiling lamp and climbed into his bed. “So, you’re comfortable? I guess you are, the last time I had water on the flat’s floor was when I spilled my tea.”

Grateful for the shelf that hid the black mass on the white rug from view, John closed his eyes. All of this was too unreal. If their arrangement continued for a while, John suspected he’d surely lose his last connection to the real world. Mycroft had made living with a dragon appear as a completely normal step, but John could easily imagine the reaction of everyone else around him. Harry would congratulate him on stealing the show and the small group of army pals he still met from time to time would attribute it to posttraumatic stress. The only one who’d understand was Mike. And for the rest...?

Banishing those thoughts that would lead to nothing, John turned over. “Good night,” he muttered, more out of habit, but before he drifted off to sleep, he heard a soft snort as a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your beta time, sweet snogandagrope :)


	4. Chapter 4

John fought his way out of hazy dreams, clinging to the familiar feeling of his pillow and blanket. Gradually, he connected to reality, yet one distinctly unusual sensation remained: a puff of air brushing his hand. John pulled his hand away when suddenly a sharp pain in his lower arm made him jolt wide awake. He ripped his eyes open.

“Ouch, what…?” The rest of his shout died on his lips when he fully processed that the guilty claws had already let go of his arm again and the dragon was fleeing behind the shelf, almost knocking it over.

“Bloody hell!” John swore. He examined his arm, rubbing over the deepest of the scratches. It wasn’t bleeding and the burn was already subsiding. “What’s your problem? You need a scratching post, or what?”

John sat up and waited for his racing heart to calm down. “Good thing there’s no dragon rabies or I’d have to get a shot now.”  He got up on wobbly knees while he was still trying to handle adrenalin and drowsiness at the same time. “You know what?” He rubbed his temples. “I’m starting to think this wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

A loud shuffling sound came in response. What was that dragon up to now? John peeked around the shelf but didn’t see anything significant at first. Only his sofa looked oddly out of place. _Considerably_ out of place, in fact.

“You cannot make yourself invisible in such a small flat,” John said. “Your only chance would’ve been crawling away into the tub.”  He took the remaining strides to the sofa to find out how exactly Sherlock had managed to hide behind it. In a barely recognisable tangle of limbs, tail and wings, the dragon had coiled himself up between the back of the sofa and the wall.

 _God, he’s afraid,_ John realized. _He’s afraid of_ me _!_

“Come on, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not throwing you out.” The distinctly panicked look softened a little. “I’m sorry,” John continued. “I’m sure you didn’t want to hurt me, you just...” He paused. “What _were_ you doing then?”

John tried to recall the moments before he was startled awake. The puff of breath at his hand, then the claw on his arm when he wanted to pull it away. The escape – just as startled and uncoordinated as John had felt.

“You slept on my bed. With your head, I mean,” John said. “And when I wanted to move away, you grabbed me, is that right?”

 _Yes, it was,_ the eyes replied and John climbed off the sofa and sat on the rug to lean against the armrest. After waiting for a while for Sherlock to come out of his hiding place on his own, John reached out his hand. “Now come here. We’re good.”

 _If I’d taken someone home yesterday and this morning we ended up on the rug like this, something would have seriously gone wrong,_ John thought, before he started tickling Sherlock between his ears when he finally emerged from behind the sofa. With all of his might, John tried to imagine the man under the scales, but all he perceived were the regular patterns under his fingers and the fantastic energy that this body exuded.

John sighed. “I hope you don’t think I’m treating you like... a pet, or something.” He shifted away from the dragon, but without success. Sherlock simply moved with him and then used his increased manoeuvring space to roll over and present John his throat.

“Are you serious? After what I just said you want me to tickle you under the chin?” John asked. If it wasn’t for those intelligent eyes making it unmistakably clear that there was an acute mind behind the shimmering scales, John would have doubted everything he had ever heard about dragons. This was not the idiosyncratic personality they were said to have.

“Okay, just for a moment.” John gently felt along the smooth area and minute wriggling told him which movements Sherlock found most enjoyable. “Don’t get used to it, I’m covering half a shift for Barnes from twelve on, so I have to...” The doorbell brought John to a halt.

 _Most likely a delivery for someone in the house,_ John thought. He had ordered nothing, so he caressed the throat down to what would be the human clavicle and then up again to the spot where the strong jaws met. Just like some hours ago, Sherlock closed his eyes, obviously revelling in the feeling of getting stroked – a sight that immediately brought John back to his previous uneasiness.

 _This is a human being! If he were in his human form, I wouldn’t be doing this._ John forced his hand to hold still and then searched for the right words.

“I can imagine that you didn’t have a lot of contact during the last years, but I’m not, you see–” John started, but the doorbell cut him short again. “Sorry, I have to answer that, could you please…?”

Reluctantly, Sherlock first opened his eyes and then lifted his head so that John could stand up and activate the intercom. It really was a parcel for him, but before John could wrack his brains as to what he had ordered, a breathless youth arrived at the flat’s door to deliver a surprisingly heavy box.

“Compliments of Mr. Holmes,” he said and instantly turned around to hurry downstairs again.

John awkwardly closed the door. “All right, Mycroft,” he said and heaved the box onto the table, “let’s see what you sent us.” He pulled at the tape but then hesitated. “It’s safe to open, right?”

During their first encounter, John was sure he would have interpreted the bared canines and the sniffing differently. Now it was clear – this had to be food.

“Wow, hello!” John greeted the big chunks of meat he freed from the parcel. “Holy… your brother’s got taste.” He lifted what looked like a sizeable part of an animal – most likely beef – out of the box. Neatly packed in plastic bags, the big pieces belonged to the kind of fancy meat John usually only bought to impress a date.

“Looks like top side or silverside. I guess sirloin, too,” John mused when he stacked the fridge. “Oh, want some?”

 _He obviously does._ The amount of teeth visible had crossed the border between slightly worrying and openly dangerous.

“Erm… raw or fried?” John asked. He held up his pan and immediately received confirmation. “Good then, steak for breakfast it is.”

John unpacked one of the smaller chunks and cut it in three pieces which barely fit into the pan. “Just get it out when it’s according to your liking,” he suggested. “It’s not like you mind the heat, is it?”

Well-done, not bloody, was what dragons preferred – much to John’s surprise. With Sherlock looming over him like a shadow of doom, the claw shooting out to poke the biggest piece of meat didn’t even make John blink. Besides, the smell was so irresistible that John’s grumbling stomach overrode all reservations he might have had about breakfasting with someone who could easily chew a steak twice as big as John’s hand.

“Do you mind if I...?” he asked and pointed at the pan. A minute shake of the head assured him that he wouldn’t lose his fingers in a sudden bout of possessiveness over the food, so John cut off some thin slices and ate them with buttered toast.

“That’ll last me until lunch,” he said and looked at his watch. “Right, I’d better leave.”

And Sherlock? The dragon had retreated behind the counter after swallowing the last piece of meat and was currently searching for a comfortable position on the rug. When nothing suited him, he climbed on the sofa and arranged his large body on it, the tail adorning the top of the backrest like a scaly extension of the leather.

“You should stay in the flat,” John stated. This would also reduce the chance of getting detected while trying to smuggle a dragon into the cellar. And besides, Sherlock would look rather out of place among old suitcases and unused washing racks.

At work, John tried not to worry what Sherlock would be doing in – or _to_ – the flat while he was alone, and his mind was effectively taken off his domestic situation when he found out why Barnes wanted to avoid working at that particular time. At twelve thirty, an obnoxious member of the lower administration arrived to check the records and John endured the endless questioning with stoic indifference. However, when the man whose name John refused to remember was gone, his thoughts instantly returned to the flat. Recalling the mental image of Sherlock on the sofa was enough to bring a smile to John’s face again – the silly dragon had appeared like he wanted to become one with the worn leather.

“Already looking forward to Friday?”

John almost dropped the file he was pretending to read.

“Mike!”

“Can’t wait to meet her, can you?” Mike asked.

John had to search his mind for a moment to make the right connections. “Well, erm, suppose, yes.” _Molly, of course._

He gave Mike a wide grin, trying to show the right enthusiasm and hoping that this time, Mike wouldn’t see through his lies.

“Hey now, what’s going on John?” Mike asked immediately, the lines between his brows deepening. John cursed inwardly. That man was a human lie detector!

“Nothing, nothing special, really,” John hedged.

“Apart from…?” Mike maintained.

John compressed his lips. Whatever he said, he had to make it sound like he wasn’t completely off his rocker again because the ease with which he had accepted a dragon in his flat was probably not understandable for someone who hadn’t been involved in the whole development. Selling it to Mike as a rather unconventional lifestyle choice wouldn’t do, so John decided to divulge the true story.

“Um, well, after yesterday’s shift there was some extra work–”

“Did Markman saddle you with more hours again?” Mike asked. “He’s just doing that to–”

“No, not at the hospital, rather on my way home. I… I picked up a _case_ ,” John said.

Mike frowned. “Picked up where? On the street?”

“From under the street, actually. You see, I met this dragon…”

“A dragon?” Mike exclaimed and then looked around, alarmed. He grabbed John’s coat and pulled him into a storage room. “You’re not talking about a _real_ dragon, are you? In actual dragon _form_?” Mike asked.

“Of course it was a _real_ dragon. How else would I have known he was a dragon in the first place?” John said. Why was he suddenly being interrogated? Mike inhaled and it looked as if he had to concentrate hard not to lose his temper. _When has that ever happened before?_ John wondered.

“Okay, John, now let’s get this straight. You met a dragon and then what? There was surely no need to treat it as a patient, was there?”

“ _Him_.”

“Pardon?” Mike asked.

“He’s a man. So it’s _him_.”

Mike seemed to be relieved. “It _did_ revert to its human form after all. I mean otherwise it, or _he,_ wouldn’t have been able to talk to you.”

“No, he didn’t change his form,” John explained. “It was his brother who told me about him. Before he asked me to, well, take him in.”

“Where? Into your flat?” Mike asked, incredulous.

“Where else?” John frowned. What was going on with Mike? He had never lost his composure like that before. “He’s obviously got a problem and I’m a doctor, and for some reason he decided to trust me. What was I supposed to do, Mike? Turn him down?”

“You let a predator move into your flat? Are you out of your mind, John?”

“Jesus, Mike! You sound like someone from the Human Forefront League!” John attempted to keep his voice down but it was becoming more and more difficult. “This is not the 1930s, for goodness sake!”

“Don’t you dare compare me with those fascists, John! I’m _worried_ about you!” Mike shouted. “I know what dragons are capable of, okay? And they’re _not_ like _us_!”

“And what makes you an expert all of a sudden?” John asked, his temper soaring.

“Just trust me–”

“And abandon someone who needs my help?” John interjected. “For all I know, it’s only temporary anyway, but you know what? I think this talk’s officially over, Mike.”

John ripped the door open and marched down the hallway. Fuming at Mike’s sudden narrow-mindedness, he ignored the shouts behind him. Mike was unable to leave a fight unsettled, but he had to deal with it this once. With great effort, John calmed down and went on with his duty. But no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t wrap his mind around Mike’s outburst.

There had to be a reason for the overreaction, something that didn’t have anything to do with the actual case of Sherlock staying at the flat. For a while, John pondered on Mike’s words but then he decided that he couldn’t solve everyone’s problems, and by the end of his shift, he had almost forgotten his friend’s reaction. When John unlocked the front door of his house though, one of his neighbours stepped down the last stair and his face set off new alarms in John’s head.

“Good evening, Mr. Clark,” he greeted the elderly man. In return, he was given a rather long look before his neighbour brushed past him, mumbling ‘good evening’ without meeting John’s eyes again.

 _Fuck, someone must have got wind of Sherlock,_ John swore inwardly. He climbed the stairs, wondering who had seen him with the dragon. It must have been Mrs. McGrath after all – perhaps from her rear window facing the garages.

Subdued, he entered his flat. If the other tenants in the house already knew about Sherlock, they’d surely intervene somehow, uptight bunch as they were. Maybe the elder Holmes could throw in his lot again, but a horde of pensioners could make everyone’s life miserable, even for a seemingly influential man like Mycroft.

“Sherlock?” John called out. A low grunt answered him and John also heard splashing. “Oh God, no, you aren’t…!” He pulled the door close and ran to his bathroom.

Expecting a flooded floor, John was relieved to see that Sherlock had obviously managed to open and close the tap, but that’s where the civilised aspects of the scene ended. Steam made breathing hard and the mirror was dripping with moisture. On the tiles, puddles had formed under the hind and forelegs hanging out of the tub. Sherlock’s head rested on the rim and the eyes that usually observed everything attentively were closed.

John sighed. “Can’t you turn into your human form for that? The bloody tub’s not big enough for you.”

Like Mr. Clark, Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him. John just shook his head and left the room. _Let him enjoy himself,_ he thought. _If I’d lived in the sewers for ten years, I’d soak in my tub for another decade to get the grime out._

He fried another chunk of meat to coax Sherlock out of the bathroom, but when he heard splashing and rumbling, John made a grimace. Damn, he had forgotten something crucial.

Before he could switch off the cooker, Sherlock was already trotting into the living room and John resigned himself to the fact that the dripping water would leave a damp path. Confused about why Sherlock was headed for the rug, John first imagined that it would be the usual search for a comfortable place, but his notion was soon disabused.

Initially sliding onto the rug like he wanted to lie down, Sherlock then splayed out his wings to rub off any residual water. When he deemed this side sufficiently dry, he rolled on his back, stretching out and wiggling on the wool to dry himself off, and if it hadn’t been for the spectacular view of a dragon penis being slowly enclosed by the scaly fold, John would have managed to direct his view elsewhere. As it was, he just stared, unsuccessfully trying to process what he was seeing, until his medical training finally won the upper hand again.

He cleared his throat. “Sherlock, honestly, I’m trying my best to achieve some… some semblance of normalcy here, but that also means _you_ have to, erm, adapt to your new life.”

Sherlock froze and then slowly turned over to get on his feet.

“It would help me a lot if you tried to act a bit more… human.”

 _No, that didn’t sound right,_ John thought to himself, and by the way Sherlock inclined his head, the message had come across as downright offensive.

“I didn’t want to say that it’s a problem that you’re a dragon; it’s all fine, really. Just…” John stopped. He had to weigh his words carefully. “I can help you. Just show me what you want, all right? Because this flat simply isn’t dragon-proof.”

Smiling did the trick at last and as if to confirm that the fight was over, Sherlock eyed the pan.

“Wait, I’ll give you a plate,” John said and earned another frown. “So that I’ve got the impression I’m having dinner with someone. That’s it.”

John had to admit that it really looked a bit like a proper dinner, with Sherlock casually leaning on the table with his front leg, poking his claw into the pieces John had cut the meat into and chewing them. Of course he didn’t need a chair, but the illusion that he was a normal flatmate could at least be sustained to a small degree. It even increased when John turned on the telly and Sherlock joined him, and they found themselves grunting in unison on most occasions.

At a particularly idiotic line by a show host, Sherlock even cringed. As if he wanted to crawl behind the sofa again, he twisted and turned until John had to grab hold of the tail that threatened to hit him in the face.

“Easy,” John said and tried to push off the tail that pressed him into the sofa like a heavy seat belt. Yet just like in the morning, the moment he laid his fingers on the scales, Sherlock immediately calmed down, so John ignored the unusual position. After a while, he even blocked out the feeling of the end of the tail curling behind his ear.

 _A bit a physical contact won’t kill me,_ he decided, and later, when he went to bed and Sherlock’s reluctance to let him go was all too obvious, John patted his mattress.

“You can... come here, like last night. If you want to, that is,” he said.

Sherlock didn’t need more of an invitation this time and John watched him quickly fall asleep, his head cradled in his front legs and the rest of his body on the floor. The position couldn’t have been very comfortable, but he looked peaceful and trusting – so much so that John felt a slight panic stirring up inside.

He wasn’t a psychologist after all. The lack of professional distance between him and his patient was slightly worrisome, but given that Sherlock had been living in isolation for so long, it was natural for him to seek contact. Withholding it would be cruel.

And the boundaries? Where exactly was he supposed to draw the line? Stroking the scales uninvited would be too forthright, John decided, although his fingers were itching to find out how sleep changed the impressive energy the body radiated. He turned over to stop watching Sherlock.

 _A set of values is enough,_ John reminded himself. If even a distrustful prat like Mycroft Holmes had been convinced that being a doctor and a soldier would suffice for this task, John could accept the situation as well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to snogandagrope and my new beta sockeyhoccer who I cannot hug enough for the help they're giving me!


	5. Chapter 5

“Fuck, what?”

The doorbell went off again, and again, yanking John from his sleep with such vehemence that he jumped out of bed before his mind could catch up with the events. His world turned out of sync when he stumbled over something – Sherlock. But before John completely lost his balance, he managed to catch himself – only to fall on his face regardless when his foot was snatched away from underneath of him.

“Bugger… bloody... fuck!” John ranted and the tip of the tail that had curled around John’s ankle let go.

The doorbell stopped its infernal noise, but now there was knocking instead. So someone had managed to get to the hallway already. _That’s not good,_ John decided and scrambled to his feet. _Not good at all._

Apprehensively, he opened the door and the camel hair coat gave John’s landlord away before the crack was wide enough to reveal the face.

“Mr Leton-Smith, what’s the matter?” John croaked. Meticulously clad and perfectly mannered as ever, the man didn’t betray any emotion, but his presence in the house at this time of the day didn’t bode well.

“Dr Watson, may I have a word?” he asked.

“Sure… sure, you want to come in?”

He didn’t – which made it perfectly clear what he had to say.

“Rumour has it that there is a new resident in this building. Is that true, Dr Watson?” Leton-Smith asked and John nodded. “Well, then you should be aware that this poses a considerable threat to domestic peace and–”

“What?” John interjected. “The Da-DA clearly states that whether you’re a dragon or not mustn’t be part of the interview when a new tenant moves in.”

“I know the anti-Discrimination Act, Dr Watson,” Leton-Smith replied calmly. “There’s no need to lecture me on regulations. However, not being in human form means that this law doesn’t apply. And in this house there are no pets allowed.”

“Pets? Are you kidding me?” John blurted out. “He’s a _man_!”

“Dr Watson, also sub-letting without my consent is prohibited, so no matter how you put it, you either have to turn… _that_ out, or you have to leave.”

In contrast to his usual behaviour, John’s landlord vanished without an effusive goodbye, leaving John flabbergasted on the threshold.

 _I’ve been given my official notice to vacate and the sun’s not yet up,_ John thought. He closed the door and walked back to his bed to plunk down on it.

“Is there a place in the sewers we could move in together?” he asked the dark shadow still forming a living bedside rug. John’s alarm clock went off with a shrill ring. “Fuck it!” he cursed. Feeling incredibly tired all of a sudden, John lay down on his bed again. Where was he supposed to go now – with a dragon above all?

He felt the mattress dip. Almost pushing John from the bed, Sherlock settled down behind him.

“Hey, you’re too big for this,” John scolded Sherlock when a wing covered him, preventing him from sliding out of bed _. Not very professional,_ John thought to himself, but leaned into Sherlock’s comfortably strong frame regardless. After getting woken up like that, a little peace and quiet couldn’t hurt.

“I’ll call Harry tonight,” he mumbled. “Maybe she knows a place, or we can stay at her... no, that wouldn’t work.”

John sighed and closed his eyes. The body he lay pressed against gave off subtle vibrations, almost lulling him back to sleep. Bewildered, John tried to process what was going on.

“Are you purring?” John asked, incredulous.  The gentle rumbling increased and John huffed out a laugh. With some effort, he disengaged himself from Sherlock.

“I’ll make breakfast.”

John prepared meat and tea, and they ate in silence. Yet the calming feeling of before wouldn’t return. When the time came to go to work, John couldn’t shake his apprehensiveness.

“I’ll find a solution, trust me,” he said more to himself than to Sherlock. He knew that the dragon had heard the worried tone in his voice, and was moving back towards him.  Before Sherlock could snuggle up to him again, John grabbed his jacket. He wouldn’t make it out of the flat if he let Sherlock anywhere near him.

Fortunately, the first hours at work consisted of A&E duty and took his thoughts off the roller-coaster morning.  However, John’s return to his ward saw him ruminate on his imminent move again. It didn’t help in the least that Mike showed up, hemming and hawing over something until John barked at him to get to it already.

“John, please.”

“What? I’m not in the mood for your petty reservations.”

“I’d really like to talk to you. In private,” Mike said, motioning in the direction of the supply room. Scowling, John got up and followed him.

“I’m sorry,” Mike started the moment the door was shut.

“You’d better be,” John answered. When he turned to leave, though, Mike grabbed his arm.

“No. Listen to me, okay?” he insisted. “You were right, I’m not an expert. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have any experience.”

John stopped. Mike didn’t share personal episodes very often.

“No one knows this, so please don’t tell anyone,” Mike said and looked down guiltily when John rolled his eyes. “You’d never do that, of course. I just want you to know why I’m a bit concerned, you see, it’s because…” He pulled John nearer and then started to whisper. “My stepfather was one.”

“What?” John couldn’t hide his astonishment. “You mean a dragon?”

“Yes,” Mike hissed. “My mother never told me. I just saw him, well, _change_. When my mother and he had this fight, he became this massive… thing. I was only six or seven, and I never told them I had seen him like that. Hell, first I thought I had had a nightmare. You see, they split up shortly afterwards and I’m sure this was the reason.”

A bout of silence ensued that John ended with an awkward ‘I’m sorry’.

“But this doesn’t have anything to do with your… flatmate,” Mike clarified.

“Sherlock,” John said and just earned a questioning frown. “That’s his name. Sherlock.”

“Oh. Right.” Mike would need some time to come to terms with everything, but he was obviously trying his best.

“All right, let’s give it a break and grab some lunch. What do you say?” John asked and, relieved, Mike nodded. They walked downstairs and by the time they were ambling past the food, Mike’s mood had already recovered enough for him to crack a joke about John choosing a salad.

“My diet’s been a bit one-sided lately,” John admitted. They sat down.

“Roast beef for breakfast?” Mike asked and John just shrugged.

“We’ve found a kind of... routine pretty quickly,” John said. _And tore down too many personal boundaries._ He cleared his throat. “Who would’ve guessed that it’s not _him_ who’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?” Mike asked.

John sighed. “Oh, nothing really, but it looks like I’m being evicted because of my idiotic neighbours.”

Mike needed a moment to process this information. “Really? They can’t do that, can they?”

Someone bumped a seat into John’s backrest and mumbled an excuse.

“No problem,” John said without turning around. “No and yes,” he continued to Mike. “Well, staying in that house where everyone’s watching us, waiting for some sort of catastrophe to happen isn’t a solution either, is it?”

“But _I_ might know one,” a voice sounded from behind John’s back and John whipped around. In the hospital cafeteria, Mycroft Holmes looked like some alien species that had got lost.

“Mike, may I introduce to you Sherlock’s brother Mycroft Holmes,” John said. “He has the annoying habit of popping out of nowhere when you least expect him.”

Mike grinned. “Pleased to meet you, intimidating brother of John’s new ward,” he said and John suppressed a snicker. Mike had never shown respect for big shots crossing his path.

“Likewise, Dr Stamford.”

John could tell that Mycroft’s knowledge of his surname threw Mike a bit off guard, but he salvaged the situation by getting up with a slightly exaggerated bow.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Mike said and grabbed his sandwich and coffee. “I suppose you have important subject matters to discuss. See you later, John. Mr Holmes.”

With narrowed eyes, Mycroft watched Mike saunter through the aisle between the tables.

“An odd fellow, your friend,” he said.

“Oh, he used to drive our professors crazy.” John chuckled. “With his unobtrusive exterior, he could get away with stuff they would have kicked _me_ out of uni for. But he’s all right.”

“I know.”

 _Of course he does,_ John thought. “So what’s that solution you were talking about?”

Mycroft Holmes crossed his legs and assumed an extraordinarily satisfied mien. “There’s a nice old lady, a Mrs Hudson, who knew Sherlock in his more… human days and chance has it that she has a flat and an empty basement to let. Sherlock could use it if he feels more comfortable there, but from what I heard, he’s become accustomed to living above ground again.”

“Well, that comes in handy.” John studied Mycroft critically. _A bit too handy._

“Do you accept the offer or not?” Satisfaction became irritation in the face of John’s hesitation.

“Where is it?” John asked and Mycroft breathed in.

“Baker Street, 221B.” Before John could protest, the elder Holmes continued. “You don’t need to worry, I won’t expect you to pay more than you are currently paying in rent. I would also take care of any special acquisitions that might be necessary.”

“Like what?” John asked.

“A van, for example.”

“A van? But why would Sherlock need one? I mean, he’s a dragon, he can fly, can’t he?”

For the first time since John had known him, Mycroft lost his composure. Just for an infinitesimal degree, but it still showed.

“He should be able to, yes,” he answered contritely. “At the moment, though, he doesn’t, so other means of transportation are necessary to keep a low profile.” Mycroft straightened and visibly pulled himself together again. “If you say yes, I will send the removal men today.”

“So I give you my keys and you transplant my household?” John shook his head disbelievingly and just earned a thin smile in return. _God, the guy is insufferable._ “I don’t have much choice, do I? It’s either that or abandon Sherlock, and you know I’d never do that.”

John fished in his pocket and then pressed the keys in Mycroft’s hand.

“Excellent.” The satisfaction was back on the man’s face. “I suggest you report sick in an hour to avoid enquiries why you have to leave so abruptly. I will arrange for your new van to be ready in a nearby car park. You should return to your flat immediately to make sure Sherlock isn’t there when the movers arrive because this could lead to… misunderstandings.”

John clenched his teeth. He hadn’t been given so many orders since his army days. Unimpressed, Mycroft Holmes grabbed the umbrella leaning against the table and prepared to leave.

“Just one question,” John stopped him. “You and your brother, I mean Sherlock in his human form, are you… much alike?”

Another one of those pained smiles.

“In some aspects, yes. Not that many, though.”

 

*****

John spent the next hour pondering about what that last remark possibly meant. He was interrupted only when a guy in a leather jacket, by bumping into him, slipped an envelope into John’s white coat. In the envelope, John found a key and the registration documents for a Ford. Before he could start wondering where to look for it, a text arrived on his mobile with the exact coordinates.

 _Mycroft works for the government, there’s no doubt about it. That, or he’s some sort of mafia godfather with a finger in every pie,_ John thought. He rehearsed a bout of coughing and called the staff department to report sick, feeling incredibly guilty when he reached Karen – one of the few sympathetic employees there – and she kept fussing about him and his health, giving him a ton of advice on how to cure his cold.

In the van, he gradually started to feel better. It was a bit like driving a Foxhound, just the Afghan dust and the constant fear of hitting a mine were fortunately missing. Self-confidently, he blocked the entire pavement in front of the house to park as near to the front door as possible.

He ran upstairs and perhaps it was his panting, or the fact that he didn’t bother to step out of his shoes – but John was sure Sherlock immediately knew something was off. Alarmed, the dragon retreated behind the sofa.

“Don’t worry,” John said and knelt down on the rug. “We’re just moving out a bit quicker than I thought. Your brother’s got a place for us.”

This didn’t calm Sherlock down at all, it seemed. John reached out and stroked along the silvery forehead.

“Everything’s fine. He means well.”

Sherlock snorted and stayed where he was, so John recapitulated the content of his conversation with Mycroft. “Our landlady’s an acquaintance of yours. Mrs Hudson, if I remember correctly,” he tried.

This made Sherlock sit up and take notice at last. Convinced that he would leave the house now, John got up and walked towards the door, Sherlock following him just a few steps behind. Critically, John eyed the peepholes on his way downstairs. His neighbours were surely observing what was going on. _Pedantic hypocrites!_

Gracefully, Sherlock got into the van and just as skilfully, John manoeuvred the van through the heavy London traffic. When he finally arrived at the right address, he breathed a sigh of relief. Bloody rush hour!

The kerb in front of the house was free due to the temporary “no stopping” signs that had been set up for the move, and John reversed onto the pavement. He was just about to get out of the van when a small, elderly lady appeared right next to him.

“Where’s Sherlock?” she asked anxiously, completely ignoring John's hello. He opened the back doors.

“Oh Sherlock, it’s you at last!” she shrieked and didn’t hesitate to pull him into the house. There she instantly threw her arms around his throat and John heard her sobbing. During the time he needed to park the van at the kerb, she had just calmed down enough to speak. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he heard her say when he entered the house.

She let go of Sherlock and stepped backwards to examine the dragon. “I can barely believe it,” she sniffed, wiping away another tear. “Your brother always assured me you would come back one day, but I thought he just wanted to spare an old woman further grief. But now you’re back and it’s all _your_ doing, Dr Watson!”

Before John could reply, he was enfolded in an embrace and the sniffling resumed, now at John’s collar.

“I didn’t do much, really. And it’s _John_.”

“You’re such dear boys. Both of you,” Mrs Hudson choked out before finally letting go of him. “Now come into my flat and rest a little. I’ll manage the movers once they arrive.”

“You shouldn’t–” John started, but Mrs. Hudson shushed him.

“You stay with Sherlock and I’ll order those fellows around. It’s my house and I know best where the furniture fits,” she stated. “And besides, Mycroft said something about putting Sherlock’s things in the basement, and that won’t do at all.”

“Sherlock’s things?” John asked.

“I mean, who would want to live down there?” she continued. “Impossible, even considering it…”

She led the way into her living room and pointed at her sofa. “You remember this, don’t you Sherlock? So make yourself at home. The newspaper’s in the kitchen. I’ll fetch it for you.”

Astonished, John watched Sherlock sit down on the sofa, waiting for Mrs Hudson to return. She opened the newspaper and spread it out on the armrest.

“The latest news from London still interests you most?” she asked and Sherlock blinked. “Ah, you haven’t changed a bit,” she cooed. On her way out, she patted John on his arm. “There are biscuits on the kitchen table, if you want something else, just have a look in the cupboards. I’d love to make you tea, but I’m sure the first load of things will arrive soon and I’d like to do a bit of dusting before that.”

She danced out of the flat – quite agile for a lady of her age, John reckoned – and then he was alone with the crocheted doilies, the flower wallpaper and a dragon reading the newspaper on the sofa.

 _Why have I never thought of that?_ John wondered. _I never considered bringing the newspaper I buy on my way to work home for Sherlock to read._ Why hadn’t it occurred to him that Sherlock might be interested in reading it?

 _Because I treat him like a pet, that’s why._ Mrs Hudson didn’t. It was easy for her – she had known Sherlock when he had been in his human form. Yet she didn’t seem to make any difference between the two, so perhaps following her example posed a chance to modify unhealthy habits _. It would also help if Sherlock wasn’t so insistent on physical contact,_ John added inwardly.

“Do you mind if I join you?” John asked. “We could have a look… together. It might be easier if I take over the turning of the pages.”

Sherlock moved his upper body up the backrest and John sat down on the now empty side of the sofa. He held up the newspaper so that they both could read it, Sherlock’s warm breath a regular rhythm at John’s ear.

“Stop sniffing at me,” John said, but leaned into the scaly cheek. It was simply more convenient that way and after some time, his concentration waned. Only the noise in the hallway and upstairs jolted him fully awake in regular intervals.

“Oh, look at you two. Like an old married couple.”

John gave a start. “What? Oh, Mrs Hudson,” he said before he processed the content of the sentence and snorted. “A hag that’s a real dragon. Great.”

She was even more delighted by the remark. “Now why don’t you go upstairs and have a look at your nest? Sherlock, show John the flat, come on!”

With an impressive leap – jumping over half of the sofa, including John – Sherlock set out for the first floor. John followed him as quickly as he could, but he only saw the tail disappear through the crack of the door when he reached the landing.

“Wait, damn it!” he cursed. He almost stumbled over the threshold, but the sight of the unfamiliar terrain inside stopped him dead in his tracks.

 _A bookcase. Not mine, though,_ John thought. There were some of his books in it – that much he could discern. New – or rather old – armchairs and a coffee table. And a fireplace. With a skull on the mantelpiece?

Tentatively he stepped inside the flat. The kitchen interior belonged to some former lodger, but it seemed okay. Where was Sherlock? John looked around. Of course, on the sofa. _My sofa,_ John realized with some satisfaction.

“I think this is yours,” he said after peeking into another room. “I don’t remember having no bed or wardrobe and just an oversized mattress instead.”

The last door on this floor would be the bathroom, John assumed. He was glad he found a tub in it, one of the old, large ones. One that would hold a bit more of Sherlock than his former flat’s, he hoped. Then there was just the staircase to the last room left.

“The rest of my stuff’s up there?” John asked and Sherlock nodded. “Ah, well, I’ll check it out later. Let me first enjoy the view of our impressive abode. Quite a bit of furniture you’ve got.”

John had expected Sherlock to make room on the sofa the moment he started moving towards it, but the dragon continued lazing across its entire length. _Was that a smirk?_ John wondered. Could dragons smirk at all? Well, this very much looked like it.

“Come on, this is _my_ sofa. Go and sit in your bloody armchair if you must.” Still no reaction. “So you’re on your turf again and this is the outcome? You give me attitude?”

Well, as much as it was possible with the relatively inflexible face of a dragon. At the same time though, it was absolutely obvious that Sherlock felt at home at last, relaxed as he lay sprawled on the sofa. For the lack of a better word, ‘happiness’ described it best – _which doesn’t mean that I’ll give up my sofa,_ John decided.

“Move it,” he challenged him. “Or I’ll make you.”

To prove his point, John grabbed the tail and pushed it from the backrest. It flopped on the floor, just like the foreleg that John removed from the sofa next. Pulling at it didn’t lead to the slightest shift of the body though. “Bugger, you’re heavy.”

He climbed over Sherlock and on the sofa, and started pushing from the other side. Slowly but surely he got the body in motion, thanks to the smooth scales easily gliding over leather. The moment he should have gained enough momentum to shove Sherlock on the floor, John’s knees and arms pushed air and before he could think about breaking his fall, the mass he had been moving landed on top of him.

“You’re fast… too,” John wheezed, trying to wrest himself free. Sherlock wriggled a bit to arrange his weight better and then John needed a moment to process the fact that the slight vibration he had encountered this morning set in again. “Bloody hell!” he choked. “That’s unfair.”

It felt good, though – illicitly pleasant, the warning voices in the back of John’s mind informed him. He noticed that Sherlock avoided using his claws, so if there was a chance to push himself off the backrest, he could perhaps slip away from under the body. John extracted his arm, but before he had touched the leather, something warm wrapped around his wrist and held him back.

“What the…? Sherlock, is that your tongue? You can’t…” John ground out but then stopped. Someone had coughed.

“I take back the old couple description,” Mrs Hudson chirped. “You’re the most adorable newlyweds I’ve ever seen. Now what about some tea, John?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snogandagrope and sockeyhoccer worked the beta magic, let's raise a toast to them both!


	6. Chapter 6

 

 _What’s wrong with that thing?_ John thought drowsily. He was glad he had found the door at all, in the unfamiliar surroundings of his new room, but the crack he managed to open it was only big enough to squeeze through.

“Sherlock, you’ve got your own bed now,” he complained when his foot hit the reason for his door’s malfunction. “So take a walk.”

The dragon really set in motion. He followed John downstairs and shuffled around in front of the bathroom door while John tried his best to combine slight swaying and urgent peeing. _It can’t be later than two or three in the morning,_ John thought, half-sleepwalking into the hallway again where his advance was suddenly stopped. Sherlock was blocking the path to the staircase.

“Okay, I give in, all right?” John said, rubbing his temples. “Just let me grab the blanket from the armchair.”

In the darkness of Sherlock’s room, he didn’t really see where exactly he was supposed to aim until he stepped on a soft surface. Unceremoniously, he flopped down.

“Now sleep, you old nag,” John muttered. He felt a familiar weight covering his middle and just like the wing, sleep enveloped him quickly.

In the morning, John noticed with some astonishment that he didn’t have to force himself to open his eyes as was usually the case. He felt utterly well rested for a change. Next to him, Sherlock’s irregular puffs of breath blew into the mattress, but the characteristic purr was lacking. Fortunately, the wing serving as a blanket was gone because recently, central heating must have got activated and John was already starting to feel uncomfortably warm.

He contemplated what to do as Sherlock would wake up if he tried to leave the mattress. It would be a shame to end the peaceful slumber of the dragon. How much Sherlock could unwind was incredible, John thought to himself. The lids stretching over the eyes, hiding the penetrating slit-like pupils for once and a fang just visible in the mouth that looked a bit like it was smiling. John reached out his hand and immediately the nostrils widened a fraction.

 _Is he awake?_ John wondered, but no, the dragon rolled over. The wing that had rested beside John was pulled away when Sherlock came to a stop on his back, revealing the rest of the long body.

 _Okay, definitely not awake and definitely male,_ flitted through John’s head. And if there had ever been any doubt about whether dragons experienced NPT, the answer was a clear yes. Intrigued, John examined the dark red penis whose physiognomy was so distinctly different from a human’s. Apart from the colour, the surface appeared to be uneven, as if every one and a half inches, it was rippled like some sort of ergonomic handle for admittedly very large hands.

 _Might have been convenient in the past, when dragons were still mating during flight,_ John assumed. He remembered images of medieval etchings that had caught his attention while he was searching the internet.

 _It sure looks impressive._ Not just the size, but also the casualness with which Sherlock flaunted it. _He’s not flaunting it. He can’t help it, he’s asleep,_ John reminded himself. He tore his eyes away from the penis and directed them up to the sleeping dragon’s countenance.  However the eyes that had been closed before now focused on John curiously. Damn, the wretch was awake and he had in fact been showcasing his assets!

John fished for words. “I’m sorry, I was just…” _staring at your cock,_ he finished inwardly. “You see, I told myself to treat you like a human…but it makes this here even more awkward. Could you maybe try...?”

Facing the ceiling as if to purposefully ignore John, Sherlock lolled about on the mattress, savouring the fact that he finally had a bed. Or taking another chance to expose himself? John didn’t care. To keep his eyes from straying, he closed them and concentrated on the previous days. Perhaps he had taken the wrong path after all. Mrs Hudson had made it clear that Sherlock being with a man was completely natural for her. She was expecting it rather, so if he was gay, sleeping in his bed would send out a signal that could easily be misunderstood.

 _I’m such a failure for my trade,_ John admonished himself. Instead of treating Sherlock like a wounded animal he should have adhered to his professional standards and kept him at a distance. No matter how right it had felt to allow for more contact.

John inhaled. “I’m sorry. I’m way out of line here. All of this is probably detrimental to your recovery.”

As soon as he opened his eyes, they were drawn to the genital again. It looked almost as big as it had when the fold had closed around it. Was it always erect? John wondered. Damn, he had to consult some books over this, what kind of doctor was he anyway? Obviously one who couldn’t act professionally around his patient, so he’d better cut this short and leave. But without saying a word? This was also inacceptable.

“It’s just… I know you’ve been alone for a long time, and you’re probably looking for… relief, but I can’t… I mean, I’m sorry you’re in such a predicament,” John rambled. “It... it’ll go away.” _Fuck, another case of foot in my mouth._

To minimise the damage, John got up and he initially thought Sherlock would follow him because he rolled over again. He stayed on the mattress, though, just curling into a ball like he had done so often. John stopped. Was Sherlock distressed? Did he shut himself away again?

Torn between flight and fascination, John was rooted to the spot when he saw the tongue he had felt around his arm the previous day sneaking out between the lips.  Just another tiny bow of the head brought it in direct line with the erection. Tentatively establishing contact at first, the tongue then sought a way up the length, twisting around it like a snake of the same dark red colour. God, was the tip really forked?

Somewhere at the back of his mind, John knew that Sherlock was looking at him, but it took him a Herculean effort to retreat from the mattress. Only when he hit the door with his back did John manage to get full control of his limbs again and he bolted out of the room without another word.

 _Fuck_ , he mouthed, that was a sight he would need some time for to stomach. But not here, not in the flat. John went into the kitchen to look at the clock. Almost nine.

“I don’t have to work today,” he shouted. “I’ll just pop down the shops.”

It was Friday, he should buy enough to last the weekend. _Friday?_ he repeated inwardly. God, he had a date tonight! And Molly didn’t even know where he lived!

John hurried upstairs and sent a text with the new address. Breakfast? No, not now, he’d grab a coffee downstairs and after returning from the shops, he’d make breakfast. And fry some meat for Sherlock.

 _Hope he’s finished by then,_ John thought, banishing the images that immediately crowded his mind. He dressed as quickly as possible to escape the flat, but not until he had his coffee in hand did it occur to him that he didn’t know where to go.

 _Down the street, then to the right_ – the map on his mobile informed him. Yet no matter how much John tried to concentrate on his new neighbourhood or enjoy the feeble autumn sun, the impressions of the morning stayed with him.

How could it be that he didn’t know shit about dragons? Why had he believed Mycroft the way he had believed his profs at uni who had argued that they wouldn’t lecture their students on dragons because no medical practitioner would ever come across one of them as a patient. ‘Thankfully they don’t drain the NHS, so I won’t waste taxpayers’ money to tell you facts that have never been verified’– those words John could still recall from an anatomy tutorial.

Disgruntled, he shuffled along the aisles and just the small vegetable stall lightened his mood. The prospect of freshly cooked sprouts had never seemed so appealing in his life, not even during his army days. The recent amounts of meat every day weren’t exactly healthy, apart from being the most monotonous diet ever. John considered the content of the fridge. Would he have to buy something for Sherlock or would Mycroft know that they were running out of meat?

 _Mycroft bloody Holmes,_ John huffed inwardly. What kind of brother would let his traumatised sibling be picked up by a complete stranger and then leave everything to chance except for a van, a flat and a fridge packed with meat? The man wasn’t naïve, far from it, so what had driven him to such a decision?

John paid for his items and left the shop, almost running into a youth.

“Sorry, I…” he began, but the young man was already walking down the street in the opposite direction. The jacket struck John as somehow familiar although he couldn’t really point his finger at the occasion he had encountered it before. The most likely explanation was that constantly mulling over the dragon with whom he shared a flat was gradually driving him crazy. But who could stay sane when their flatmate was quite literally able to go down on himself?

The picture his mind conjured up had nearly made John turn on his heels. _Think,_ he commanded himself, _you’re on your own here. You have to take a decision how to come to terms with this!_

After all, Sherlock was entitled to a sex life. And the fact that most humans couldn’t pleasure themselves the way he did was an anatomical misfortune, wasn’t it? John snorted. Trying to take the matter seriously again, he visualised returning home and meeting the man who wasn’t too shy to wank off when someone else was present. So what was the big deal? They were both adult males; they would muddle through.

 _With a bit more embarrassment on my side, but damn, I can’t force my standards on him, can I?_ John thought to himself. What were dragon standards about sex anyway? It seemed that there was a never-ending list of reasons to consult the books.

 

*****

In the flat, John ignored the quizzical expression Sherlock greeted him with.

“Now, want some meat?” he asked and put away the groceries. One sniff at the fish John had bought and Sherlock escaped, his tail knocking a sizeable crack in the kitchen door’s glass. “Oi, watch it!” John shouted.

As soon as the meat was sizzling, the dragon would return – that much was certain. It took a bit longer than usual, but shortly before the giant steaks were ready, John heard him slink back into the kitchen.

 _Reading, food, tea – this could become the perfect ritual, couldn’t it?_ John wondered when he opened the newspaper for Sherlock and stacked the meat on a plate. It could be a bit boring from time to time, without anyone to talk with, but conversation was still possible somehow, there just weren’t so many words involved. And if the flat became too quiet, there was still Mrs Hudson.

John sipped on his tea. Quiet was better. Much better. And with a bit of luck, they would manage to survive this evening without producing another disaster. But to assure this, careful planning was required.

“Well, Sherlock, tonight I’ll have a guest, you see,” John began as casually as he could. The way Sherlock straightened did not necessarily signify that there was a problem, yet John reconsidered the phrasing in his head again. No chance. No matter how he put it, this wouldn’t turn out well. “And I hope you don’t get this wrong, but all of this is fairly new and people don’t really know what’s going on. On top of that, I’m not in the mood for another round of explanations, so, well, could you…” John inhaled. “Could you please stay in your room? Just for tonight?”

This time, Sherlock’s tail knocked a chip out of the door’s window. John clenched his teeth and suppressed his guilty conscience because another failure like the one with Mike was even lower on his agenda than a miffed dragon.

For the remainder of the day, John didn’t see Sherlock again and not even the smell of a steak could coax him out of his room. Bored beyond all measure, John watched the telly, read the rest of the newspaper and even rearranged some items in the flat. Yet whatever he did, it simply wasn’t the same without the dragon’s critical eyes observing him.

When, albeit slowly, the time approached that Molly would arrive, John decided for a quick shower to revive his spirits, but he regretted this step almost immediately. The constant confrontation with new tasks had condensed the week to a snap, producing a considerable wank backlog. Hard at the first soapy touch, John tried to keep his mind blank, concentrating on the perfunctory act of taking the edge off before entertaining a guest, but it was almost impossible to keep out the images of that morning.

Violently, he pushed away the thought of the enormous length – it was too surreal to include a penis of more than twelve inches in one’s fantasies anyway, but the tongue…

 _Dicks are enough,_ John corrected himself. Real human dicks, not the one he had encountered this morning. He first pictured men he had met and then faceless blokes with the right anatomy, but they became just a vague idea in the end, too indistinct to be recognised as people any more. Just a colour prevailed – the dark red that bathed everything with its intensity.

_Like the tongue… so tight around my arm, but soft. How would it feel?... Undulating… strong…_

John’s other hand shot up to cover his mouth and smother the moan that wanted to burst forth when he came. Mortified, he immersed himself in the jet of the shower and washed off all traces of his semen.

This hadn’t happened. It just… it hadn’t.

John shook his head. All of this was simply due to the novelty of living with someone who was completely unconcerned about personal space, he decided, and towelled down as quickly as he could. It would take some time getting used to, so in the meanwhile, he should try to grasp what was left of his old existence and preserve it.

He remembered the elation he had felt when he was looking forward to Molly’s visit, but he couldn’t really relive it. When Molly stepped into the flat, though, obviously cheerful and not as timid as John had seen her lately, he began to feel better.

“Very nice place, John,” she said. “Very… central.”

 _And rather out of your financial league,_ John translated. “Well, I’ve got a... flatmate. But he’s out,” he hastened to add.

“And is he nice?”

“Don’t know him that much,” John answered, leading her into the kitchen. “But he seems okay. So, what shall we make of the stuff in the fridge? You tell me what to do and I’m your eager footman.”

She laughed – so the distraction worked. They occupied themselves with cleaning vegetables while the oven was heating and Molly shared a couple of stories from the lab. John even heard the name of the policeman he had met on Monday. Lestrade was a DI above all, but John refrained from asking about him because he feared this would raise suspicions.

“Where’s the bathroom?” Molly asked while John was pushing the salmon into the oven.

“Just around the corner.”

 _White or rosé?_ John contemplated the available bottles of wine. The rosé was a bit dry, so together with the sprouts it wouldn’t taste that great. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw that Molly had returned. He grabbed the white wine to show it to her, but her face made him immediately put back the bottle.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I… I didn’t intend to, but, you see,” she stammered. “There was no sign on the door...”

John froze. _The wrong door._

“I took the one straight on and... John, there’s a dragon in that room.”

Embarrassed, John cast down his eyes. “Yes, there is, erm… I thought that maybe I’d tell you in the course of the evening,” _or not at all._ John steeled himself. “I mentioned that I’ve got a flatmate, right? Well, that’s him, that’s... Sherlock.”

Expecting another outburst, John was surprised to see Molly just frown a little. “And why did you think it necessary to hide him from me?” she asked. “He’s… a man, that’s it.”

“That’s what I keep telling everyone!” _And myself._ John added inwardly. He sat down and breathed in deeply. “But, well, people haven’t reacted that favourably this week, so I thought I’d better take things slow.”

Molly sat down opposite of him. “How come you live together with him? On Monday you still had your own flat.”

“And my own life,” John finished the sentence. Which part of the story should he relate? Perhaps a shortened version would be safest. “I met Sherlock by accident and he followed me home. Since then he has been, well, with me, and his brother helped us to find this flat when my landlord threatened to kick me out.”

“So he chose you? Sherlock, I mean,” Molly asked.

“Yeah, but I think it was mere coincidence.”

“Perhaps at the beginning.” She grinned. “He decided to be your friend and you know that nothing’s going to change that.”

“What are you alluding to?” John asked. He had to do something about his ignorance, this was becoming more and more insulting to his profession.

“Haven’t you read the literature about dragons? I mean, when you were at uni?”

“I had a bunch of profs who were rather old-fashioned,” John hedged and Molly rolled her eyes.

“I know the type. But I learned a bit about what is known of their social behaviour and from what I remember, you can be sure you’ve got a friend for life. If Sherlock stays in his dragon form, that is.”

“What’s the difference?” John asked.

“You at least know about the complexities of _human_ relations, _doctor_?” Molly mocked him. “Well, dragons are more... instinct based on the one hand, but also more sensitive on the other. And from how he glowered at me, I’m pretty sure at the moment your Sherlock’s a bit jealous.”

“But he’s not my... I mean, we are not...” John protested.

“You are very close companions, let’s leave it at that,” Molly suggested. John let his shoulders sag.

“I heard that term already. Doesn’t make the whole arrangement less bizarre, though.”

“Just look at the bright side, John,” Molly cheered him up. “You’ve got a nice flat, someone to share the rent with and he didn’t eat me, so I suppose he’s got his possessiveness under control.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” John said in horror.

Molly giggled. “Yes, I am, sorry. But he _is_ possessive. Wait, I’ll show you.” She took out her mobile and wrote a text she directly showed to John. ‘Kiss me goodnight when I go’, it said. She pointed at her ears and John needed a moment to understand what she was referring to. Of course, dragons had excellent hearing. Sherlock could probably understand every word that was spoken in the kitchen. Or hear every sound in any other room...

“I think the salmon’s ready,” Molly said, rousing him from his thoughts. Once they were busy with the meal again, John was able to block the part of his brain that wanted to use the new information he had got and analyse the past days with it. Instead, Molly and he ate, talked a bit about work and a theatre play they both wouldn’t have time to see.

Yet after the third glass of wine, John couldn’t keep the nagging thoughts at bay any more.

“What’s wrong, John,” Molly asked. “You seem a little... pensive.”

“I’m sorry, really, it’s awfully rude of me.”

“Don’t worry, just tell me,” Molly encouraged him.

“What you said, this close companion thing,” John started and then didn’t know how to continue at first. “But I’m his doctor, aren’t I?”

She smiled. “No, you’re not,” she stated and it was clear she deemed further explanations superfluous.

“But what does he expect of me?” John asked.

She shrugged. “What you’re prepared to offer, I guess. He wouldn’t do anything against your will, he’s a dragon after all.”

“That’s hard to forget, really.”

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” she said and got up to fetch her handbag. “I really believe you can do this. And I even trust you with the dishes.”

“At your service, my lady.” John smirked and opened the door, but Molly remained on the threshold, answering John’s questioning gaze with some gesticulation he couldn’t decipher.

“You forgot something?” he asked.

“Yes, and you did too.” She stepped forwards and gave him a noisy peck on the cheek before turning and giggling quietly.

Yes, the kiss. He had completely forgotten about that. _Wouldn’t have happened in my better days. I’m out of practice._ John shook his head. What an idiotic plan. So he had a jealous dragon with territorial issues in his flat? What could possibly happen?

John knocked at Sherlock’s door and entered, orienting himself with the help of a strange noise he heard. It came from Sherlock, there was no doubt about that, although it wasn’t the purr, not at all, and when the feeble light in the room was reflected by something gleaming, the meaning of the sound became perfectly clear. Accompanied by such an amount of bared teeth, this could only be a snarl.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks for fixing the language glitches go to sockeyhoccer!


	7. Chapter 7

As much as John tried to stay where he was, his feet had different ideas and took a step backwards. His shoulder hit the door frame. _Something to lean on. Good._

“Now calm down, Sherlock, there’s no reason to whip out the big guns,” John appeased him. _Stupid plan! Why didn’t I just believe her and be done with it?_

The gleaming teeth were covered by the lips and once the air could not pass between them anymore, the snarl became a growl. In combination with the eyes narrowed to slits, this didn’t make a big difference from before.

John cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, this wasn’t fair. I just... Molly told me something about dragons in general and I was...” _behaving like an idiot._ “You know what?” John turned on his heel. “This has to change!” He marched back into the living room to grab his laptop from the table. “I need to know more,” he muttered to himself. “It’s unacceptable that I’m so much out of my depth here.”

He snatched the Union Jack pillow from the armchair – _must have been Mycroft’s influence in Sherlock’s human days_ – and returned to the still growling dragon.

“I’m sorry, all right?” he said and dropped the pillow at the head of the mattress. “Now please stop that.”

John couldn’t completely shake his apprehension in the face of the continued hostility towards him, but he sat down, leaning against the wall. “I know this is bewildering for you and it was entirely my mistake. I apologise for that.”

As calmly as he could, John opened the laptop and, with his other hand, started stroking the area around Sherlock’s ears. At the first touch, the threatening noises stopped. Sherlock pressed his head into the side of John’s thigh and relaxed noticeably.

“Real books! I need reliable literature!” John cheered his browser on. In a specialist online bookshop he found some volumes and one of them he could download immediately. “Hope that’s thirty pounds well spent,” he grumbled when he finished the transaction.

 _‘Cultural Sociology of the Dragon Ethnos’,_ a collected edition, first published in 1996.John checked how long the book was and cringed inwardly. _760 pages._

“So when I allowed you to adopt me, I became your what? Your handler?” he asked jokingly. He was close to clicking the chapter ‘Dragon-Human Relations’ but then stopped and chose the next one. ‘Intimate Relationships’ sounded more like it, although John could barely bring himself to moving the cursor to the words.

Fortunately the text was written in layman’s terms instead of being overloaded with sociological vocabulary. John skimmed the passages quickly and his blood froze when he found the relevant part. _Consort_ was the word the author of that essay used – but further reading showed that it only applied when sex was involved. John breathed out the air he hadn’t been aware of holding in.

“Ah, look, there’s a study about that cult in Siberia,” he said. “Humans live there too and they obviously share everything with the dragons, at least that’s what it says here.” _Wonder what that means though._ “I think I’d better go back to the basics. Mmm, ‘Dragon and Human Inherent Dispositions in Comparison’. Well, let’s try it.”

John skipped the part about childhoods and continued with the stage of maturity. According to the author, dragons were very _sensual_ creatures – _Molly had used different words, perhaps to avoid scaring me off_ – and they needed a lot of contact once they had decided to mate.

“Yeah, _mate_. Whatever.” John digested the information and tried to class it with his experience. Basically, his instincts had been right: keeping Sherlock at a distance would have been cruel. He focused his attention on his hand that was automatically stroking the scales and directed it towards the soft chin to tickle Sherlock there. Appreciatively, the dragon stretched out.

“Really?” John asked when the fold at the crotch parted. It wouldn’t help much to withdraw the hand from the throat – dragons seemed to jump on the sexual bandwagon rather quickly – so John continued the movement of his fingers and simultaneously skimmed the essay’s part about lifestyles and basic needs. Dragons were not thin-skinned when it came to brutal handling, but they were very sensitive to light touch, it said.

“Okay, that explains this here,” John muttered to himself and stared at the screen. Intently, he scanned for more information that would be of interest and help keep his eyes from straying. “Oh, you _do_ drink. I was already wondering… But only about once a month or less.” John searched his memory. “Did you drink while you were with me?”

He felt the head nod.

“But I didn’t _see_ you drink,” John said. “The only time you were in the water was… wait, did you drink from the _tub_?”

Yes, he did. John was trying to picture the scene when a logical consequence interfered with his thoughts. “Do you make use the toilet? _Can_ you make use ofit?”

A nondescript snort was all John got in return. So the issue was either under control or not important at all, it didn’t matter. A weightier problem was posed by the phallus that John was still too much aware of, albeit only out of the corner of his eye. But the book’s short study about sex turned out to be a rather superficial description of genitalia combined with a summary of the moral and ethical discussions in the previous fifty years.

John sighed. He closed the document and opened his browser. If he searched the web for sex and dragons, he’d end up with a lot of nonsense, but he tried regardless. Bypassing the first results that were clearly ads, he clicked on an extract from a novel.

 _The dragon writhed at her feet,_ he read silently _, starving to be touched. His magnificent hardness like a beacon of passion, calling to her. Oh, it would feel glorious, so full, the flesh like a living creature in..._

Frantically, John shut down the computer. “Enough research for today,” he rasped and removed the laptop from his legs. Before he could get up though, Sherlock rolled over, his head taking the computer’s place. “Now come on,” John protested. “I need to… do the dishes.”

Sensing the lame excuse, Sherlock stayed where he was, and a faint purr set in that vibrated through John’s thighs.

 _Oh, bloody…_ John saw Sherlock’s nostrils flare almost imperceptibly the moment he himself became aware of the twinge in his trousers. He all but pushed Sherlock from his lap and then scrambled to his feet. “I’ll… I guess you want something to eat.”

When he arrived in the kitchen, John needed a moment to calm down. No line had been crossed, and besides, the book had been clear about the fact that this kind of physical proximity was completely in the range of what had to be expected with a dragon. As long as there was no sex, the whole dynamic wouldn’t change.

 _Idiots,_ John scoffed inwardly. The drivel about sexual intercourse had been so vague. It wasn’t even clear what _exactly_ would bring about a shift in the relationship, but some of the wording suggested the author meant penetrative sex.

John blinked, focusing on the fridge. He took out the next-to-last piece of meat and weighed the soft substance in his hands. _Sex with a dragon. Unthinkable._ Not even the sexual equality movement of the Eighties had made him consider the topic, although it had been present everywhere in the media. Hell, at that time the only thing on his mind had been getting laid _at all_.

Shaking his head, he cut the meat, pondering the options he had. As a friend, he would uphold the boundaries, even though he was – as Molly had emphasised it – _not_ Sherlock’s doctor. He could handle the proximity Sherlock called for. It was in the dragon’s nature, although Sherlock certainly _knew_ what he was doing when he started that bloody purr on a fully functional, red-blooded man! _For Christ’s sake, it had felt like a gigantic vibrator, damn it!_

Carelessly, John let a plate clatter on the table.

 _Easy,_ he admonished himself. _Demanding_ doesn’t mean _forceful_ , Molly had been right about that. Nothing would happen if everyone kept their hands and claws off sensitive body parts.

“Okay, this can’t get any more ridiculous,” John muttered to himself before he shouted: “Sherlock? Food!”

An unobtrusive peek showed that the dragon had returned to a presentable state again and John watched him devour each steak with one bite. No, there was nothing normal about all of this, so he shouldn’t bother when he got to see an unusual dose of penises lately.

_I was in the army, for goodness sake. I’ve seen more. Although certainly not bigger._

John cleaned the kitchen and went to his room, but before Sherlock could get up from the sofa and head after him, John stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t worry, I’ll…” John paused. At a loss how to formulate the rest of the sentence, he balanced some ambivalent options against each other. “… sleep downstairs,” he finished.

 _One day, this will hopefully feel a bit more natural,_ John thought to himself. He changed into his pyjamas and went to the bathroom. At the moment, the idea of sleeping in someone else’s bed just for the sake of sleeping was weird at best, but at least Sherlock’s presence was so familiar now that later, getting under the blanket, the protective layer of the wing immediately adding its weight, was more comforting than strange.

John fell asleep almost instantly and when he woke up, he got the impression that not much time could have passed because the wing was still covering him. There was barely any light in the room, but enough to tell that it was early morning. John inhaled through his nose. Cold. So the radiator wasn’t on, hence the wing.

He looked down. Sherlock had curled up under the wing too, covering his head. Perhaps wrapping himself in the wing had been a practical way to sleep in the sewers? How was it even possible to survive down there for so long, without any contact to the outside world?

Fighting the urge to touch the scales, John’s attempt to shift away resulted in an unguarded movement showing him unmistakably where Sherlock was positioned under the wing.

 _Next time, don’t bump into his nose with your prick, you prick!_ John cursed inwardly. He stemmed the tide of unbidden images featuring that long tongue and what he had seen it do. Right now it was so near, so invitingly close, and just a tiny adjustment of the hip would...

 _Fuck!_ Panicking, John rolled over and jumped up, his leg protesting sharply against such treatment. But Sherlock sure as hell would smell even the slightest arousal while he was sleeping. If he was sleeping at all!

Taking two steps at a time, John hurried to his room and while he was dressing he willed down his beginning erection. No question: this would be part of the routine from now on. His only options were to endure it or put some discipline in his touchy-feely dragon – a project that was doomed to fail from the beginning. So in case it–

Someone knocked loudly and John thought he had heard Mrs Hudson’s voice.

“John, Sherlock?” it sounded through the door when John arrived in the living room. “There’s someone with a very big parcel.”

 _New meat!_ John opened the door to Mrs Hudson and the delivery boy he already knew. He was pulling a hand truck upstairs because the box was too heavy to carry. At John’s instruction, he put it down next to the fridge and Mrs Hudson immediately started unloading the bags with the meat.

“This would make a fine roast!” she exclaimed. “Very tender. Mycroft certainly knows his way around the better cuisine.”

John couldn’t say if he heard a bit of contempt in the last sentence; until now he had thought that Mrs Hudson was partial to both of the brothers. When she had gone again, John put on the steaks and finally the regular beat of his new life’s rhythm set in again: Eating, reading, telly – and eventually this would lull Sherlock and him into a comfortable quiet until night fell.

 _Too comfortable perhaps,_ John thought as he saw Sherlock napping on the sofa in the afternoon. Although the sight was far from new, John couldn’t help feeling slightly at odds with the dragon that had almost become part of the furniture. Although he seemed to feel at home, Sherlock looked… out of place somehow.

“So, this flat is something like your natural human habitat, isn’t it?” John asked and Sherlock opened his eyes. “And what about the dragon? I mean, you do different things, don’t you? Like that bunch in Siberia. Not setting fire to villages or scaring the peasants, but they’re, well, _flying_ at least.”

The eyes closed again, yet John saw the tip of the tail twitch a little. “Why don’t you fly?” he insisted and of course there was no answer. John thought to perceive a tension in the body instead, and he remembered Mycroft’s words about the fact that Sherlock _should_ be able to fly. “So it’s got something to do with that mysterious incident in the past, I get it,” John said. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t take it up again. It’s like riding a bike, I guess.”

Jobn walked to the sofa to hesitantly grab the outer bone of the wing, most like a finger if one compared it to the human hand. He pulled and the wing opened easily, making John stumble backwards until he hit an armchair with his legs. He plunked down and let go of the wing, which retracted immediately.

“Wow,” John said. “The anatomy must be similar to a bat’s. Clever design. Now let’s try again. This is physiotherapy at its best.”

Now with more vigour, John pulled at the wing to open it. It didn’t show any resistance, but in contrast to the previous time, Sherlock didn’t close it and instead it remained on the floor, limp, like a dark grey rug.

“Oh, I get it,” John scoffed. “You’re a weak sissy. Poor thing, I should have known,” he imitated Mrs Hudson, but Sherlock’s reproachful look told him that any idiot could see through those tactics. “Suppose you’re too clever for that, aren’t you?” John sat down on the armrest of the chair. He crossed his arms on his chest and observed the disinterested dragon. There had to be a leverage somewhere.

“What about you do it for me?” he asked. The eyes opened again and John held the gaze. “Please?”

Convinced that his approach wouldn’t work, John was surprised to see Sherlock lift the wing from the floor and step down from the sofa. Slowly he advanced to the centre of the room where he finally opened the second wing as well. Astonished, John saw the tips of the wings touch the ceiling’s corner.

“Can you... erm, flap them?” he asked and Sherlock closed them just enough to make real movement possible in the confined space. Immediately, the air swirled around him and John blinked.

“More!” he shouted when the paper from the desk was sucked into the drought. “And now faster!” Sherlock closed his wings again, ignoring John’s protest. “That’s it? Come on, you just need a bit more exercise!”

John got to his feet. This wouldn’t end with the dragon shuffling to the sofa again! “I bet you can’t catch me with your wings,” he challenged him. A swish, and almost out of nowhere, John saw the wing descending on him. At the last moment, he managed to jump to the side.  

“Pretty quick. But you have to do better.” John smirked at the dirty look Sherlock gave him. Perhaps there was more bait he could throw the dragon. “I’ll watch that bore Barnaby with you tonight if you try harder.”

Murder mysteries were the best way to keep Sherlock in front of the telly without him constantly snorting at what was shown – although John suspected that he knew who the perpetrator was from quite early on in the programme because each time he had seen Sherlock narrow his eyes at a certain actor, it was him or her who had committed the crime.

“What do you say?” John asked. “Midsomer Murders and a rerun of Lynley? My last offer!”

Sherlock was intrigued. Even more so, because he turned around, but then seemed to pause in his movement. _What’s going on behind those scales now?_ John thought to himself. He rubbed his nose, inhaling through his fingers, and just as he was preparing to bribe the dragon with some meat, Sherlock pounced.

Adrenalin spiking instantly, John jumped and then slithered behind the armchair. He heard Sherlock’s wing catch on to some books which dropped on the floor. Hoping that this had created a distraction, John flung himself behind the other armchair, which would provide a better escape route.

“Nice try,” he shouted and risked short a peek over the backrest. A wing swooshed over him and something plopped on the floor next to his knee. “Skull’s still in one piece!” He pushed it under the chair, but didn’t risk another delay. Ducking under the wings, he zigzagged through the living room to hide under the desk.

 _Damn close!_ He had already felt the wing’s bone on his back and the moment he crouched between the table legs, some items on the desk were swept from it and landed on the floor. John scanned the limited area of the living room he was able to see from under the table. Sherlock was nowhere in sight, so he was hiding. Next to the window perhaps?

His heart pounding in his temples, John tried to activate his soldier mode. The armchairs were most suitable, around them Sherlock couldn’t manoeuvre that easily because the wings were simply too large. And then? The kitchen table might provide a promising destination because Sherlock couldn’t reach under it. On the spur of the moment, John made a dash for the armchairs, looking right and left and not seeing anything, but he hadn’t taken two steps before he was tackled to the ground.

“Fuck…!” Then the air was knocked out of him. Of course Sherlock had been on the desk, noiselessly waiting for a move like that! “Just the wings!” John gasped, desperately trying to hold off the sturdy membranes enfolding him. To avoid making use of his weight, Sherlock had rolled over, yet the wings’ muscles still clutched John tightly. Wriggling could do the trick, John hoped, and made use of the scales’ smoothness to slide upwards a bit. Inch by inch he struggled out of the wings’ firm grip.

 _Too much friction!_ he swore when he pushed himself off of Sherlock’s shoulders. Briefly, arousal washed over him when he wrenched his lower body free from the clutches. A necessary rational part of his brain was decommissioned by the unusually close contact, so his first movements in freedom he crawled on all fours. Pulling himself up by the armrest of the chair, John staggered into the kitchen, automatically following his previous plan.

The tiles under the table were pleasantly cold and John even enjoyed the wings’ breeze because, just as he had anticipated, Sherlock couldn’t reach under the table and instead had positioned himself on the top. The wings were fluttering about to block John’s escape, but John first needed to calm down his racing pulse from the exertion of escaping the dragon’s squeeze.

What now? A diversion had worked well, so he could try that again. John stuck his head out of the safety of the table on the side where he saw the long tail twisting and immediately, Sherlock turned around. But John did so as well and now pretended to attempt his escape from the other side of the table. After a couple of repetitions, he was sure that he had confused the dragon enough. Now John burst forwards. Instead of running straight on, though, he ducked and circled Sherlock, the unchecked movements of the wings following him sending several mugs crashing to the floor. Just when John made a beeline for the living room, there was a different noise though.

“What’s that ruckus, boys?”

An unguarded millisecond. The look to the door was enough to ruin John’s strategy and he felt one wing sweep his feet off the floor whereas the other caught him before he hit the armchair. 

“Everything’s all right, Mrs Hudson!” John managed to shout and then he was wrestling for his sanity again. Shit, the rubbing of the bodies shouldn’t feel so good, he needed to get out of that tight embrace right now. Laughing affectedly to hide the moan that he couldn’t subdue any longer, John finally stopped his struggling and hoped Sherlock would let him go.

“I give up!” he gasped and waited for the embrace to end. “You win.”

Yet the clutching wings held on. John’s eyes closed on their own accord, reducing his world to the over-sensitised areas of his body that were pressed into the powerful frame of the dragon. For a moment, John allowed his mind to go with the arousing flow. He felt the heat pooling in his crotch and the flush on his throat and it was addictive to sense the answering reaction in the dragon’s scales. As if the power lying in wait under them reached out for him... and there was the purr again… God, too much, too–!

Desperately John fought his way back to full consciousness and strained against the wings.

“I told you that you won! Game’s over!” he croaked and slowly, the wings let go of him so that John could back away. He cleared his throat. “Food or telly?”

The nod in the direction of the kitchen indicated that the first option was up. John took a deep breath, staggered to his feet and then aimed for the fridge.

“You know what?” he asked without turning around. “Tomorrow we’ll go exercising in the countryside.”

 _Where there’s space,_ he added inwardly. _And air… anything to avoid a repeat performance of today!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sockeyhoccer saved me from the language pitfalls, many thanks!


	8. Chapter 8

John stared ahead, tracing the outline of the open door. For most of the night he had been doing this, afraid of falling asleep and ending up too near to Sherlock. He wrapped himself in the duvet he had exchanged for the blanket, just leaving his face uncovered. Unfortunately, the radiator was starting to heat up the room and John felt increasingly sweaty.

 _God, I’m pathetic,_ his weary mind supplied. His eyes refused to stay open anymore, succumbing to the incredible tiredness that was dragging him towards sleep. Just a kip…

Moments later, he awoke with a jerk. But his eyes had problems getting used to the amount of light in the room though, so it had to be a lot later than just a few moments. The heat was gone as well, just like the duvet.  But John wasn’t cold. _Why aren’t I cold?_ John tried to get his bearings. _The wing!_ _Of course Sherlock covered me after I had kicked off the warm quilt._

Once more, John focused on the door. With Sherlock merely inches away rolling over meant bumping into an erection again or, even worse, revealing the fact that nightly tumescence affected them both.

 _I need to get away as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. But how?_ John wondered and the former perspiration, which had dried off in the meanwhile, broke out again. _For goodness sake, I’m not concerned because I want to spare a dragon’s sensibilities, am I?_ He carefully pushed the wing downwards, trying not to wake Sherlock, but after the first few inches, John knew that his plan had failed. He felt the dragon inhaling at his nape.

“I told you to stop sniffing at me,” John said and the draught stopped. Instead, John had to process a peculiar sensation that at first he wasn’t able to understand. When the feeling of something tracing his hairline intensified though, he knew the origin. “So you think that licking is a suitable alternative?” he asked but couldn’t manage the degree of offendedness he had planned.

 _Say it out loud!_ John commanded inwardly. He needed to tell Sherlock that lapping up the moisture in someone else’s nape wasn’t the kind of affection a proper friendship demanded. _Perhaps among dragons it is?_ John thought to himself. He closed his eyes and fought back the untoward images his mind conjured up. This was merely a tongue. Dry, but smooth regardless, it traced its path along his jaw only to slide along the jugular and explore what the pyjamas didn’t cover of the clavicle.

“That… tickles,” was all John could manage. Hell, that tongue had purpose. And was too dexterous by far. “We should really watch out,” he breathed. “This is a dangerous… direction we’re heading.”

 _Not that we’re moving anywhere near the zone the book implicitly warned about,_ John decided. The sensitive area below his ear was attacked and he let it happen because he heard and felt a gentle purr again. Although the vibrations of the forked tongue were barely noticeable, they were still exceedingly effective in multiplying the delicious tiny sparks spreading along John’s nervous system.

“I know what you’re doing, but it won’t work. I won’t become your… whatever.” John tried to keep his breathing steady. Somehow his body wasn’t cooperating anymore. “In the book... _holy… shit_!”

The tongue had slithered into his ear shell, sending a pleasurable jolt through him. _Leave!_ his mind commanded but he couldn’t. Didn’t want to. “Stop that, please...” he whispered instead. Immediately, the tongue disappeared and John kept his hand from reaching into his trousers to arrange his cock. He just had to get out of this bed. Or even better: out of this house!

“If you’re so active, we could head out of London directly after breakfast.” His voice belied his steadfastness and died off at the last syllable. Hurriedly, he peeled the now cooperative wing from his body and escaped without waiting for some kind of acknowledgement. Dressing in old clothes was the best preparation for their trip, he decided and went to his room.

 _I won’t wank off now!_ Conscious decision notwithstanding, his stubborn hardness rendered closing his jeans a demanding task.

“For…” _fuck’s sake!_ He could barely swallow the rest of the sentence. _Bloody dragons and their excellent hearing! Or their sensitive tongues!_ This was a disaster. He stomped downstairs to throw some steaks into the pan to let them fry whilst he made sandwiches for the trip. Only when he was completely ready, he called Sherlock.

“Come and eat! I’ll get the van!”

Before the dragon arrived in the living room, John was already out of the door. Sherlock wouldn’t need much time to eat, so reversing the van onto the pavement to attract as little attention as possible could be done in the meanwhile. John checked the street and in both directions no one was near – which was hardly surprising for a wet Sunday morning – so he blocked the passage and afterwards opened the back doors.

“Now let’s go!” he said in a normal voice, convinced that Sherlock would hear him, and just as he had anticipated, Sherlock leaped down the flight of stairs and into the van like a black flash. John closed the doors, and in the van, the same calm feeling of three days ago eased his mind. As far as he could remember, there were no big events scheduled in London this weekend, so all the streets should be clear and the droning of the engine would become a soothing background noise to the hopefully uneventful drive.

After John had been following the motorway to the west for almost an hour, he took a random exit. “I’m pretty sure we’re in Wiltshire already,” he mumbled to himself. He followed a wider road for a couple of miles until the villages became scarcer and fields dominated the landscape. In the rather overcast weather, no weekenders ventured so far outside, and a peek in the rear view mirror showed that there was just a dark car driving on the same street.

 _Is it following us?_ John wondered. He was sure a similar car had taken the same exit from the motorway. Trusting his instincts, John turned left into a very narrow street that was supposed to lead to a homestead four miles away. No, the other car had driven straight on, so John continued down the street for another mile and then stopped. There were just muddy fields and meadows around and the hills were high enough to provide cover from curious villagers.

“Now show me what you can do,” John encouraged Sherlock after opening the doors. “Come on.”

Not a fraction as enthusiastic as he had been before, Sherlock stepped out of the van.

“Flap them!” John climbed on a small stone wall. “From up here, and then...” He jumped down and landed in a dirt puddle, the mud soaking the hem of his trousers. “Well, not like that,” John laughed. “But you get the idea, don’t you?”

He did, it seemed – as Sherlock hopped on the wall like an overgrown bird, but then he appeared to be unsure how to proceed. Tentatively, he moved his wings up and down.

“Faster!” John shouted. He ran across the meadow, waving at Sherlock to follow him, and the dragon accelerated the movement and pushed himself off the wall. For a second, he really seemed to hover in the air before he descended again and landed in the mud, his hind feet cutting a path through the dirt.

“Good start!” John stepped backwards to create an even greater distance. “Now try again!”

Sherlock dutifully returned to the wall and this time, the wings created enough lift to carry the dragon across the meadow. John was about to shout his praise when he realised that something was not right. Knowing to start didn’t necessarily mean knowing how to steer, let alone how to land! Helplessly, John witnessed Sherlock crashing into the shrubbery, entangling himself in a barbed wire fence on top of all.

“Fuck, are you all right?” John ran over to the angrily hissing dragon who was tearing through the wire. “Don’t let yourself be discouraged, you need some exercise, that’s all, it’s…”

But Sherlock had demonstratively closed his wings once he had freed himself and brushed past John to march towards the van. “No, no, no!” John sprinted after him and overtook him shortly before he reached the wall. “That was just a minor setback,” he explained, but the dragon’s eyes conveyed such a disheartening mixture of anger and disappointment that John had nearly given up as well. With some effort, he pulled himself together. “You can forget about the drive, you know,” he said, pointing at the van. “I won’t take you back to London until you’ve started flying.”

Sherlock glowered at him accusingly and continued his path while John was trying to grasp the right words.

“I believe in you,” he blurted out. When Sherlock stopped, John couldn’t suppress a smile. “I’m convinced you’ll manage, . . . if only to avoid _walking_ back home.”

John wished he could read the dragon’s face better. Had it been the encouragement or the well-intentioned threat that had made him turn around? Whatever the reason, Sherlock took up the uncoordinated flapping again and accepted one crash landing after another with stoic indifference from then on. At first John tried to run to him each time he took a nasty fall, yet as the hours wore on, the lack of endurance training made itself felt and he only jogged half-heartedly in a ten yard circle.

For lunch, they huddled in the van and John shared his sandwiches with Sherlock, but perched on the load bed in damp and dirty clothes was even more uncomfortable than being outside. Continuing to move would at least get him warm again.

The weather had not brightened and was becoming mistier in the course of the afternoon. Already completely soaked, John watched Sherlock take a run-up, a strategy he had adopted in the last half hour. Until now it hadn’t worked better than gliding off the wall or starting with a standing jump, although at least the wings were moving with more vigour now, translating some of the energy John knew was hiding under those scales.

“That’s it!” he shouted when the hind legs took off. Briefly it looked like Sherlock would lose his balance and side-slip again. He wavered but then caught himself, strongly fighting for the lift he needed and finally tilting the wings the way to produce enough thrust to accelerate. John’s hands cramped in his jacket’s pockets. Sherlock was going to make it! This time he was really going to fly, John affirmed to himself, and wondrously, he took in the moment when gravity stopped existing for the slim creature that had been battling to overcome it so fiercely.

“Yes!” It felt exhilarating to see him soar up in the air at last. With powerful strokes of the wings Sherlock gained more and more height before he changed over to a long glide. John turned to follow the flight, but when Sherlock descended and dove down behind some large trees, John’s eyes got caught on a motionless figure standing on one of the surrounding hills. He stopped to have a proper look, to discern it more clearly although the light was already fading. Yet it vanished and John thought he heard an engine igniting.

He whipped around to see where Sherlock was. Had he crashed behind the trees?

“Sherlock?” he shouted, but at that moment he was snatched from his feet although to his surprise, he didn’t land in the mud. “Sherlock! Stop it!” The claws held his arms and his lower legs firmly and below him, John saw the grass race past– about five feet away.

“You have to land, damn it! Fuck, _can_ you land?” _The face. I definitely have to cover my face! And curl up or roll over, provided that I don’t get flattened by a dragon!_ “Get down already! Get the fuck down!” John yelled.

And down he went. When John was sure he’d be used as landing gear, he was hoisted up in the air and suddenly saw cloudy sky instead of green. Abruptly, Sherlock descended and before John could understand what was happening, the body under him hit the ground. Bumping over the uneven surface for some yards brought them to a halt and John couldn’t help laughing out loud.

“What a crap landing! Seriously, Sherlock, did you want to kill me?” One of the trademark snorts was the answer and the giddiness of the adrenalin boost gave way to a well-known contentedness of having survived. John rolled over and remained on the wing, resting his head on the torso. “You make a bloody bad pilot, but good picnic blanket – waterproof and all.”

 _Even fireproof. Hell, I could take a nap on lava._ John chuckled inwardly. He stroked the wing’s tissue and it rippled under his hand. How could it be that something so indistructable was so sensitive at the same time? Or the body he was leaning into: It wasn’t solid like a shell but it could withstand even the greatest force. How was all that explosive energy kept together?

“You’re quite a miracle, you know?” Only reluctantly John got up when the sun faded over the small hills in the west. “What about you go for another round and I return to the car? I mean, you can _fly_ back home if you want to. Do you?” A shake of the head. “It’s okay,” John said, smiling. “You did great today.”

During the drive to London, John’s mind was still full of the unexpected success of the afternoon and his pride in what they had accomplished increased so much that he couldn’t help swirling Mrs Hudson around in a little dance when she welcomed them.

“God, boys, what have you done?” she giggled.

“He was _flying_ , Mrs Hudson,” cried John. “We went to a place outside of London and he started flying again!”

“Oh wonderful, this is such a relief!” She gave the dragon waiting on the stairs a wide smile. “But you’re terribly dirty!” She scrutinised John. “Both of you. Go and wash. The tub’s big enough.” She laughed again.

John watched Sherlock vanish upstairs. “Wait, I’m first!” He ran after the dragon and upon unlocking the door squeezed through a crack to outpace him. “Let me take a shower! I’ll be out in a flash.”

John dashed into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. He almost ripped his clothes off, cursing his hurry because he was still wearing his muddy shoes. Not caring if the water was already hot, John stepped under the jet to scrub his hands and face, lathering himself down afterwards. Before he had washed the suds out of his hair, he heard a noise. The door had been opened.

“Give me a moment!” he shouted, but he couldn’t jump out of the tub as quickly as Sherlock was occupying it. Inelegantly he extracted his right leg which had got caught between the dragon’s body and the tub. “Hold your horses, all right?”

Sherlock rested his head on the rim and relaxed under the jet of the shower. But his eyes weren’t closed in delight. They were watching something attentively.

Hectically John snatched a towel from the rack. “Stop ogling my dick!” he commanded, but couldn’t suppress a grin about his phrasing. Sherlock, in turn, seemed to obey the request and rolled over on his back, drawing John’s eyes to the penis that had unabashedly escaped its prison again.

John sighed and turned away. “Well played,” he admitted to Sherlock and his own reflection in the mirror. _Caught red-handed again_ , he thought and mentally shook himself to snap out of his embarrassment.

 _This is normal! I can deal with this_.

Repeating his motto over and over again, he bore the direct view of the dragon’s erection when he closed the drain and adjusted the tap so that the shower head wasn’t fed anymore. And with some effort, John also overcame the self-consciousness caused by getting the undivided attention of those green eyes – while he was wearing merely a towel around his hips.

As unhurriedly as possible, John went to his bedroom to put on his pyjamas. He buttoned them up to the top, mentally shaking his head at his foolishness. As if one more button could establish a proper distance between him and Sherlock! Yet this was what he had signed up for, so he couldn’t deny Sherlock those obvious urges. They were in his nature. Once he had decided for someone, his instincts did the rest, wasn’t that what Molly and the book had said?

 _He has decided. So what about me?_ John threw on his dressing gown and trudged downstairs to bring some steaks to a sizzle. He cut off some pieces of one of them to make himself a sandwich. _I need to decide where to draw the line too. And soon._

Sullenly, he gulped down half of his food. This was not the moment to come to important decisions because the next steps were evident anyway: returning to the bathroom and providing help with the towel. And, not to forget, overlooking the allure of an aroused dragon.

“I’ll dry off the water, so hop out!” John cried before second thoughts could stop him. When he threw the towel on Sherlock, he couldn’t see the lower part of the body, but even looking up while he rudimentarily dried the front couldn’t hide the fact that the towel caught on the still prominent hardness. _Touching it wouldn’t be suspicious now, not in this context_ , flitted through John’s head, and he gritted his teeth while he kept his hands from wandering. Sherlock surely knew what was going on, sniffer-dog that he was.

John heaved a sigh. “Can’t you control… yourself a bit more? This makes it hard to keep up appearances,” he joked half-heartedly. Sherlock sniffed at him in lieu of an answer.

“It’s me, isn’t it?” A rhetorical question, going by the look Sherlock gave him. “But that’s just a… a physical reaction and… well, I can’t help you with everything. Flying was one aspect but…” John trailed off when Sherlock fixed him with his gaze, inclining his head. Helplessly, John shrugged. “I... I don’t know.”

This seemed to be Sherlock’s clue to leave. John brushed his teeth and when he returned to the living room, the empty plate showed him that Sherlock had wolfed down his food in the meanwhile. But now he already was lying on the sofa on his belly, the tip of the erection still visible.

“You can… bring yourself relief if you want to. I’ve seen you doing it before, so...” Sherlock didn’t move and continued watching John who was inching backwards again. “Well, I won’t bother you now anyway, I have to be up early tomorrow,” he announced and hurried to the bedroom.

 _Perhaps I’ll already be asleep when he goes to bed,_ John hoped. He lay down, listening to the noises of the flat. A creaking, some shuffling – and then the big, black shadow slid through the room before stepping on the mattress. Although he occupied most of the bed, Sherlock had managed not to touch John when he joined him.

 _This here isn’t different to the other nights,_ John reminded himself. Just the bewildering mental picture of Sherlock still in a state of arousal dominated John’s thoughts to such a degree that any tiredness was brushed away like an annoying mosquito.

 _And if I can’t handle it?_ John closed his eyes. _Touching wouldn’t change anything of our living together, would it?_ Perhaps making his overactive mind meet reality would alter his perception. A grip of the impressive length, testing the way it reacted, comparing it to the rest of the body... _Too dangerous,_ John decided.

He opened his eyes and folded back the blanket. “I can’t do this any longer, I...” _have to get out now!_ _And quickly, before something like this morning happens_ … _like the pleasant tickling along the nape._ _Yes, just like that!_ his mind applauded the cautious advance of the tongue.

John mouthed _‘Don’t’_ , but no sound came out. This was not the first time Sherlock touched him like that, so there wouldn’t be any repercussions, right? And it felt good – phenomenal even – and it had to feel even better for Sherlock who was practically thriving on contact. The need and the urgency were barely contained in the tentative way he explored the throat now. A bit more skin wouldn’t wreak some emotional havoc, John thought to himself.

“This is okay, I guess.” The book had said so, hadn’t it? With shaking hands he unbuttoned his pyjama jacket and then rolled on his back, and immediately Sherlock pounced on him, his tongue gliding to the now exposed nipple. Squeezing his eyes shut, John tried to preserve a modicum of control over his body while the tongue expertly played on his nerve endings like it had only been made for this task.

“God yes,” John hissed. He felt the dragon above him shifting, and it should bother him that Sherlock now clearly felt the stiffening penis straining against the trousers, but John couldn’t bring himself to care, not with those maddening sensations racing through him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware of the fact that he was also searching for more friction, pressing his crotch into the dragon’s throat. And when the tongue trailed down his belly and John heard Sherlock sniffing along the pyjama bottoms – with just a hint of a touch brushing the bulge – the desperate need that had been building up took over with a vengeance.

 _Want. More!_ John’s mind demanded and he frantically tore at his waistband and briefs to free his cock, and instantly the tongue wrapped itself around it.

As if from somewhere afar, John heard himself groaning but he wasn’t sure if he was still connected to reality because all he could really process was the tips of the tongue dancing over his glans. The rest of his length was captivated in a vibrating stranglehold, a smooth prison, which, each time John thought he had got used to it, slithered along the sensitive skin to make his whole body reverberate.

“I can’t...” gasped John. “Can’t...”

No further warning was possible when the tongue constricted around the rim of the glans, the forked tip’s electrifying caresses making John’s breath catch. Blisteringly fast his orgasm caught up with him and he came with such force that the world briefly went black before he floated back. Drifting on a wave of satisfaction, his lungs filling with air again, he felt the wing covering him, warming him when the world slipped away again and sleep wrapped him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much, sockeyhoccer, for providing me with something to post despite the festivities! (Late) Happy Thanksgiving to you!


	9. Chapter 9

The light creeping through the slit of one barely opened eye was enough to make John frantically scramble for the alarm clock. Bollocks! Only half an hour until his shift began!

He crawled from the mattress and supported himself on the wall to get up.

“I have to run. Forgot to switch on the alarm!” he shouted in the hallway. In his room, he threw on some clothes and then gave his face a quick treatment with the electric shaver before storming out of the flat.

“I’ll be back in the early afternoon!” When there was no answer, John slammed the door shut. He ran downstairs and then sprinted the short distance to the entrance of the tube station. Impatiently waiting for a group of school children to make their way through the turnstiles, John patted his jacket. Yes, he had taken his mobile with him. Everything was all right, this was a _completely ordinary_ morning, he affirmed for himself when he felt his breathing accelerate.

“Oh, for the love of…” Squeezing his way through the group to enter the underground suddenly seemed his only option. As did elbowing his way inside a carriage that was already crammed to bursting. The moment his fight with morning traffic stopped though, and all he had to do was hold on to the pole next to him, the events of the previous day caught up with him so violently that the brief spell of panic at the entrance of the station paled in comparison.

John closed his eyes and tried to focus inwardly. He was _not_ losing it. Not here. And not now. What had happened the night before was an ill-advised testing of the limits, nothing else, and it wouldn’t change anything. A one-time mistake that hadn’t overstepped a crucial line. It hadn’t, had it?

Nervously, John felt for his mobile again. On the tube, he couldn’t check for the kind of information he needed. Not when so many people were standing together so closely. Outside, there wouldn’t be a chance either: the way to Barts resembled a steeplechase, and until his round was over, he wouldn’t even have time for coffee. Coffee – what he wouldn’t give for that!

Trying his hardest to concentrate, John managed to work his way through the morning, grabbing some biscuits from the nurses and living on the content of the vending machines. It took him almost until noon to escape to the toilets and lock himself in a cubicle to get some privacy. With trembling hands, he switched on his mobile. The time for modesty was officially over: he had to call things as they were.

 _Dragon, sex, oral sex._ John cringed. Which other search terms should he include? Perhaps the words that had come up in the book he had downloaded after Molly’s visit? _Consort, mate,_ he typed and then chose the first option the slowly loading result page showed.

 _Wow, far too many pictures!_ he noted. After scrolling down to find some text, John gave up eventually and returned to the previous page, but he had to pause before he could continue. With some effort, he forced the explicit material he had seen out of his head. No, this didn’t bode well, he thought. Merely _looking_ at what had been performed on him definitely shouldn’t cause his arousal skyrocket in such a way.

 _Hopefully this is just a reaction to the fact that I_ had _sex after such a long dry spell,_ John mused. He chose the next link with more consideration and already the first sentence on the page made him almost double over. Without any doubt, yesterday’s events had crossed a line – or half a dozen!

“Fuck!” He kicked the cubicle leg. Why hadn’t he researched this more properly?

“Everything all right?” a voice sounded from behind the door.

“Yes, yes,” John said. He cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t read my e-mails in here.”

There was a chuckle and then the door snapped shut. _That guy didn’t wash his hands!_ flashed through John’s mind before it switched back to the panic that had been lurking the whole day. Rubbing his temples, John tried to keep a level head, although his whole system begged him to smash his mobile on the tiles.

 _Okay, think!_ he ordered himself. First of all, there was the fact that he had run out after waking up. Not reciprocating was just as rude as it would have been with a human, but scarpering like that? Probably the worst idea ever.

John blinked. _Reciprocating?_ Distracted by the connections his mind formed with the pictures he had just seen on his display, John needed to give himself a mental kick to concentrate again. This was serious! What if Sherlock had understood the silence wrongly? From what the page had said, entering intimate relations meant raising a claim to the dragon. A fucking claim! What the hell could have been a comment on something like that after waking up? Perhaps ‘sorry mate, I know, you’re hooked on me now, but I didn’t mean it that way?’

Sighing, John unlocked the cubicle. He washed his hands thoroughly, but only to have a long look at the guilty conscience that stared back at him in the form of his reflection. God, he had messed this up. The most sensible thing to do was to immediately call Mrs Hudson and have her check on Sherlock. Then, depending on what she found out, he should either return home or stay at the hospital, and the latter meant more time to ponder on ways to sort out this confusion.

 _But all of this won’t work without coffee,_ he decided.

He left the toilet and directly aimed for the staff room. No one else was there, so he dialled Mrs Hudson’s number while he was pouring coffee into a mug. A couple of files were lying on one of the counters and John first sipped on his coffee and then studied the names of the patients.

The ringing tone stopped. “ _Yes?”_ Mrs Hudson asked.

“Oh, oh, Mrs Hudson, it’s John, I wanted to… wait a second.” John put his phone on the counter and shuffled through the files. He was sure to have seen Mr Peterson’s name somewhere and perhaps his CAT scan results were back already. No, this man’s first name was just Peter. But where was the phone now?

“Whatever you’re searching, it can wait,” a deep voice said.

“What…?” John tried to turn around when something hard poking in his ribs prevented his movement. He froze. A pistol, not overly big – _a twenty-two calibre perhaps,_ the soldier in John assessed. “Do you think that shooting me here in the hospital is a good idea?” he asked, remembering that Mrs Hudson was still on the line. Hopefully she could hear him.

“Shut the fuck up, you hear me?” the voice behind him whispered urgently. “Do exactly as I tell you and _no one_ gets shot, okay? Not you, not some, let’s say, innocent bystander. It’s all in your hands.”

John nodded. He let himself be motioned out of the room and down the hallway to the stairs. This guy really knew the layout of Barts because he took all the rat runs that were least populated at this time of the day. They left the hospital through one of the back entrances, but there was no car or van waiting. Instead, the gun was pressed into John’s left side to make him follow the pavement towards Smithfield Market. In the huge hall of the grand avenue, John saw several vehicles parked.

“In here, there’s surveillance everywhere. You won’t get far,” said John and the gun poked into his back insistently, making him stumble forwards.

“Was easy to get rid of. Now shut it!” the man hissed when they entered the hall. All three cars had their engines running, but only the boot of the last one was open.

Why three? John thought frantically. Perhaps they were less easy to trace, later, when the police examined the traffic surveillance? _This means that all of this is carefully orchestrated and I’m supposed to vanish for good!_

The building was deserted at that time of the day and the only escape route was the wide street through the market’s building. No cover to both sides, no open entrances. Stoically, John marched on towards the open boot and he felt his body tensing up, preparing for a fight.

“Now say hello to your new life,” he heard, but before he could lunge out, pain exploded on his neck and his legs gave way in the wake of the blow. When he collapsed on the edge of the boot, his head hit its inside, coarse carpet scratching his cheek. He felt his legs being grabbed to hoist the rest of his body up. Just managing a weak kick, John was surprised that it had obviously had an effect because the hands let his legs drop.

A shout, some rattling and a thud – and for a moment, the engines of the cars were the only noises. John supported himself on the boot and tried to stand, but his dizziness just caused him to sink to his knees again, the car’s exhaust making him cough. Cautiously, he turned his head but his kidnapper had simply vanished.

 _What the fuck is going on?_ John held onto the bumper and spied around the car when his senses were overloaded again. A piercing scream filled the hall and John covered his ears, ducking instinctively to hide from the shadow that was cast over him. A _moving_ shadow from above!

John straightened. “Sherlock!” he croaked, but the dragon had already descended on the man lying next to one of the iron gates. The claws picked up the weakly struggling body easily only to smash it into the gate again a yard further down the street. _Those were the sounds I heard earlier,_ John reckoned, but his thoughts about the man needing medical attention were immediately quelled when he heard the first shots.

He saw the dragon soar, manoeuvring clumsily in the confined space of the market. The tips of the wings collided with the windows in the ceiling and John’s arms shot up to protect his eyes before the shards rained down on him. Suddenly, the car he was leaning on pulled away, leaving him unprotected to all sides. With screeching tires, it stopped next to the man on the ground and as if they had coordinated their actions, the other men in the cars started firing at the dragon.

John flung himself on the tarmac, tuning out the infernal noise. _MGs. They’re firing MGs!_ Those idiots! They couldn’t deter a dragon with weapons, could they? Squinting to keep an eye on Sherlock’s outline in the blaze of gunfire, John saw that the dragon hovered in the air and each bullet hitting him made him jerk visibly.

 _Is he in pain? That’s impossible!_ John was on the verge of trying to get up despite the danger and his aching head. _These are just bullets!_

“Drive!” John heard and the noise suddenly stopped. Wheels spinning, the cars sped off. Replacing them were distant sirens which were coming nearer, and a swoosh made by the wings directly above him. Groaning, John went on all fours, but a wing prevented him from getting up. It wrapped him up like it had done  during their playful fight and John felt Sherlock inhaling at his nape.

Gradually, John’s racing heart slowed. He was safe. The pain was almost gone and also Sherlock seemed to be in one piece.

“Are you all right?” With some effort, John extracted an arm and stroked the expanse of the dragon’s chest. He had the impression that some of the scales felt dented, but this had to be a figment of his imagination, John decided. Yet still…

Quite suddenly and less carefully than it had enclosed him, the wing let go of John and the howling sirens of the police cars brought him back to reality. “And you sure you’re all right?” he shouted when Sherlock was already in mid-air, aiming for the south exit of the building, yet the dragon disappeared without looking back. John turned around and saw Lestrade clamber out of an unmarked police car, and, as if someone had repeated the blow from before, the pain in John’s neck returned.

“Shit!” he swore and sat down on the kerb. _What did I get into now? This has officially stopped being fun._

“Dr Watson!” he heard. Leather soles clattered on the pavement. “There were reports of shots! Can you tell me what happened?”

 _My name. Of course._ John fumed. _Everyone knows everything – apart from me, that is!_ He looked up to glower at the DI, who had finally managed to reach him.

“Don’t _Dr Watson_ me!” he snapped and saw the inspector’s eyes widen in surprise. “I’m sick of everyone calling me by my name although we’ve not even been introduced!”

Flabbergasted and at a loss for words, Lestrade looked down on John. He reached out his hand in an awkward gesture of conciliation, but John batted it away and staggered to his feet unaided.

“But two can play this game, _Detective Inspector Lestrade_ ,” he grumbled, narrowing his eyes at the policeman. Lestrade appeared to be taken aback for a brief moment before his professional façade returned.

“Now could you please calm down and tell me...” he began.

“Calm down?” John interjected. A part of him was sorry for the man who always seemed to cross his path at the worst possible occasion. “Mmh, where do I start? Someone abducted me, threatened to kill me, hit me with a gun, and finally almost packed me into a boot. But I’m sure this part of the story doesn’t interest you!”

“What? Why?” Lestrade asked, irritated.

“The important aspect is that Sherlock intervened and although they fired at him, he managed to scare them away,” John challenged him and as worried as the DI now looked, he had hit the mark.

“Where is he? He isn’t injured, is he?” Lestrade asked and John sighed.

“No, _he_ isn’t injured. Before you arrived, he just…” John stopped. What had he done? Sniffed for blood, protected him until backup arrived. “…made sure I was all right and then he bunked.”

“Did you get a clear view of the men who tried to abduct you?” _Ah, finally this is about me, who had been crouching on the ground some minutes ago,_ John grumbled inwardly but before he could utter a word, Lestrade reached into his jacket to extract his mobile.

“Yes?” he asked. Saying his name wasn’t necessary, so he had to know the person at the other end of the line, John deduced. “Sherlock prevented Doctor Watson from being abducted.” Lestrade listened to the caller. “Yes, there were shots.” Another pause. “No, of course not and Doctor Watson is also okay.”

 _It has to be Mycroft. What an ass!_ John thought to himself. With an air of the same annoyance John felt, Lestrade hung up.

“I’m sorry, please continue.”

“There’s not much to add, actually,” John said. “I mean, they had the guts to abduct me in broad daylight at my workplace and just by pure coincidence, Mrs Hudson could alert Sherlock – and Mycroft. As _you_ are here.” John scrutinised the inspector who started to fidget slightly under his stare. “And that’s the reason why you also won’t tell me anything about what’s going on, will you?” he snapped.

The face closed off so quickly that John assumed he had activated some automatic defence mechanism. “I’m very sorry, but this is touching state–”

“–secrets,” John finished for him. “If I hadn’t such a bloody headache, I’d tell you where to shove your state secrets, you know?” Inclining his head to test if anything had been dislocated, John still held eye contact and dared the inspector to continue with the appeasing drivel.

“Do you want me to accompany you to the ambulance?” Lestrade’s worry line was back.

“No, thank you, I’m _fine_.” John sighed. “I just want to go to Baker Street.”

“But listen, I still need your...”

“No, _you_ listen!” John barked. What he had said without thinking too much was rapidly becoming a vital necessity. He really _needed_ to go home. Now! “You can either switch on your mobile’s mic while you’re driving me home or you have to wait until tomorrow, after I recovered from my shock.”

“So you _are_ injured!” Lestrade exclaimed.

“No, but I’m pretty sure I’m about to develop some kind of ailment if you don’t drive me home _this instant_.” Where had that come from? Repulsed by his own voice, John was nevertheless relieved when the DI started walking towards his car.

 _Bloody hell, what’s wrong with me?_ John wondered. He watched Lestrade activate the recording function and then started to recount every detail he remembered. During the drive though, John’s thoughts continuously strayed as he envisioned the moment when he would be at home at last.

Sherlock was surely there. Waiting. Perhaps Mrs Hudson was looking after him, but who knew? And was it even safe for them in the flat?

“What about the house? Does it have surveillance now?” John asked when they arrived. Lestrade snorted.

“Mycroft Holmes saw to that, don’t worry.” He pulled over but grabbed John’s sleeve before he could step out of the car.

“Take care, Dr Watson.” He reached into his jacket and then pressed a card in John’s hand. “Call me if there’s... a problem,” he said insistently.

 _Perhaps he’s not so bad after all,_ flitted through John’s head. And maybe Mycroft’s choices with regard to the people he surrounded his brother with weren’t as arbitrary as they sometimes appeared. “Thanks,” he said and gave the DI a quick smile. He stepped out of the car and ran to the house where he was immediately ambushed by Mrs Hudson.

“Thank God, John, you’re all right. I was worrying myself sick!” she cried. “The repair team’s already here.”

“What repair team?” John asked, alarmed.

“For the window,” she declared. “You don’t expect Sherlock to take the stairs after I told him what I heard on the phone, do you?”

“Oh, I…” John’s mind reeled. “But where is he? Is he upstairs?”

“No, of course not. I assume it has nothing to do with the craftsmen, though. He didn’t want to go to the flat when he returned, you know. And at that time, it was still empty.” She almost looked as if she was about to cry. “He’s down there,” she whispered, pointing to the door.

“What?” John felt his already shaky self-control crumble completely. “He’s in the _basement_?”

Mrs Hudson grimaced, nodding gravely. John brushed past her and climbed downstairs. _No, not again!_ he pleaded inwardly. _Not after all the progress Sherlock made!_

In the dim room with the stale air, he needed some time to get used to the low light, yet the green eyes lit his way. Huddled in the corner, Sherlock had curled up, and the pitiful view of the frightened creature made John’s breath catch. He knelt on the carpet and pulled the dragon’s head in his lap.

“Don’t do that,” he rasped. “Don’t go underground again, okay?”

This wouldn’t start all over again, would it? And just because of those idiots! Exhausted, John lay down his head on Sherlock’s neck, the coarse scales pressing into his cheek.

“We’re home, we’re almost unscathed…” John tried to remember where he had felt the dents in Sherlock’s scales. There, below the wing, his finger dipped into a tiny depression at the outer edge of a scale. Comparing it to another hit, John was sure that they all shared the same characteristics: whatever weapons those men had used, they were able to hurt a dragon when the bullets hit the scales’ edges. The damage seemed superficial, but how close exactly had they been to penetrating the armour? John asked himself, worried.

And if a bullet had, perhaps by a freak coincidence, gone through the hide? What would happen if not the human was hurt – activating the automatic transformation and thus eliminating the injuries – but the dragon himself was wounded? Would this destroy the sensitive equilibrium that held him together?

“When those guys fired at you…” John fell silent. In the hallway, the noises of several persons could be heard. “I think the window’s fixed. We can go upstairs again.” Sherlock didn’t move. “Please, come with me.”

Still no reaction. Perhaps waiting would help, John thought. He carefully pushed Sherlock’s head from his lap and shifted to lean against the strong shoulders. The minutes ticked by and after some time, the chill of the basement floor started creeping through John’s trousers.

“Come on, Sherlock, it’s cold in here,” John tried. “We could light the fireplace. I’ll fry some meat, you watch the news. What about that?”

Nothing. John’s stomach grumbled, reminding him of the fact that he also hadn’t eaten. “I won’t leave you down here, do you understand?”

He felt the body shift a little, but with the thought that he had finally got through to Sherlock, it struck John why exactly the dragon had stretched out like that. John snatched his fingers away. Without him realising it, they had trailed along the throat.

 _That’s a solution,_ John thought. Pushing this button meant overriding all conscious decision – which was for the best right now, wasn’t it? John clenched his teeth, dismissing the doubts that surfaced immediately. He let his fingers return to the spot they had been caressing and gradually intensified the contact, wandering to the area below the jaw that he knew was most sensitive. Sherlock’s body translated each touch into subtle writhing, a testimony of the intensity with which he felt the tickling of his throat.

“You really like that a lot, don’t you?” John asked. He didn’t need an answer because although Sherlock was lying on his belly, it was clear that he was aroused. John knew the telltale signs by now. “Come upstairs with me.”

 _Not yet,_ conveyed the body once the purposeful stroking paused. John sat up. “Roll over,” he told Sherlock, who immediately complied.

 _Most_ definitely _aroused,_ John confirmed himself. And now? With some effort, he crafted the words he was going to say, but first he needed to leave yet another boundary behind. He breathed in and reached out, his fingers shaking slightly – but only until they made contact with the hardness they had been itching to touch.

“Hell, that’s...” he gasped. The smooth surface that felt like incredibly thin skin containing raw energy transmitted the pulsating from underneath. Intrigued, John clasped the tip that was slim enough for his hand to encircle it, and then worked his way along the bumpy length towards the thick root.

“You want this?” John asked, returning to the middle and squeezing lightly. A growl accompanied the twitching of the length, both signalling the affirmative. “Then promise me to leave the basement.”

John thought to have seen a nod, mostly masked by an appreciative shudder. Each rub along the increasingly warm length sent signals through the long body and Sherlock looked utterly helpless, at the mercy of the tiny hand that shouldn’t be able to elicit such reactions.

 _In my hand._ The thought was suddenly there, sprung out of nothing but unleashing such a surge of raw power in John that it became impossible to ignore the stirring in his own crotch any longer. He wasn’t the only one who had realised it, it seemed, as Sherlock inhaled, almost drinking in the arousal he smelled.

Hot to the touch, the phallus tempted John to establish more than just the limited contact through his hands. _No!_ he commanded inwardly. Forcing himself to breathe, he watched Sherlock give in to the coaxing fingers. The pulsing erection twitching like it had a life of its own was the only active party, the rest of the body displayed complete surrender, waiting for the final shocks that would ease the tension. And when they came, Sherlock’s animalistic roar reverberated in John, mixing with the thrill of arousal and the fascination of seeing the dragon abandon all control. He milked the clear liquid spurting from the tip and coating his fingers.

 _Wonder how it tastes?_ flashed through John’s mind, but he kept himself from raising his hand. Instead, he wiped it on his trousers.

“What do you think? We go upstairs?” John asked, searching Sherlock’s gaze. Quelling the euphoria he felt, John got up. _Oh yes, we go upstairs,_ he answered his question inwardly because by the look Sherlock had given him, John was sure that he could have asked for anything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heartfelt shout-out to sockeyhoccer who fixes my wonky English!


	10. Chapter 10

The darkness of the unlit bathroom was odd but comforting at the same time. John sat on the edge of the bathtub, listening to the distant traffic and the gurgling of the pipes. Mrs Hudson had to be up already – a typical insomniac elderly lady.

Tea with Mrs Hudson. Toast. A bit of chatter about B-list celebrities. All of this would be a lot better than hiding in the bathroom. But unfortunately it wouldn’t be a solution to the problem at hand because sooner or later the conversation would switch to the inevitable topic.

John gritted his teeth. _Sherlock_.

At least this time waking up and fleeing from the bed had included a muttered excuse, John thought to himself. He briefly considered turning on the tap to make his statement that he wanted to prepare for work more credible, but the amount of deception had already reached worrisome levels, so he decided against it. Light wasn’t an option as well because it would mean looking at himself in the mirror and in the wake of the previous night, John decided to forego this experience.

He balled his hands into fists and inhaled as quietly as he could. Sherlock would hear a deep breath. _Just like he had surely smelled the arousal that almost drove me to distraction after the episode in the basement._ John blinked and suppressed a bitter laugh. It had been torture to keep the urge to touch Sherlock in check. Or later, to refrain from promising him more sex if he ate another piece of meat.

 _Using sex to get my will. And reducing the Hippocratic Oath to a nursery rhyme_. After the events in Smithfield Market, there should have been trauma counselling or gentle persuasion, and not seduction that bordered coercion!

John felt a light sheen of cold sweat on his forehead. Damn, panic was the last thing he should show now, but slowly the string of wrong decisions formed an alarming pattern.

Something had changed. Already the way he had treated Lestrade had been so unlike him. No amount of police force could have convinced him to stay at the crime scene, the need to return home had simply been too strong. So the line that had been crossed the night before had probably not only done something to Sherlock.

 _It affects me somehow, draws me too him._ John wished for his mobile to do some research. It was strange, though, because in the lengthy exposition about dragon/human sex, there hadn’t been anything about pheromones that changed human behaviour. Yet the evidence was too clear; there was no doubt that something fundamental had happened, something so powerful that even now, in the bathroom, John could barely keep himself from immediately returning to the bedroom.

 _No, whatever process is under way, it needs to be stopped right now,_ John decided. For his own _and_ for Sherlock’s sake. They couldn’t run around like zombies, remotely operated by some biological mechanism that drove them both crazy. But how on earth could there be a meaningful exchange of arguments and concerns when communication was so bloody limited!

Annoyed, John switched on the light and carried out what he had announced to Sherlock. He showered quickly and then went up to his room to dress, constantly mulling over the events of the previous day. It was unavoidable to apologise for what had happened in the evening, sure, but the reason why Sherlock had relived his trauma was someone else’s fault!

 _Hell, I was the one who had nearly been abducted!_ he cursed inwardly. _No one gave a shit about my trauma!_

Trying not to work himself up into a lather, he focused on his excuse when climbing down the stairs. He could hear Sherlock wandering about in the living room, but the moment he saw him, John decided to postpone the apology because Sherlock didn’t pay any attention to him. Instead, he was very busy sniffing the bookshelf.

“Morning, Sherlock?” John couldn’t suppress the raised inflection. The dragon didn’t turn around but opened his wings and half clawed his way upwards, half flew to the top. A strong swipe cleared out an entire shelf and the books pelted down on the floor. Sherlock landed rather inelegantly and continued the sniffing. Curious to see what the dragon was searching, John stepped forwards and had a look.

A nudge of a claw opened one of the books and John saw a wire sticking out. It was connected to some kind of electronic device – something John had only seen in films.

“We’re–” He was cut short by furious green eyes. “… _bugged,_ John mouthed. Sherlock nodded and squashed the microphone like a real insect before he resumed his sniffing trail. He stopped at the desk and John crawled under it. No, the bug had not been there the last time, although John admitted that he could not recall the bottom side of the table very well, as distracted as he was when he was playing catch with Sherlock.

He got up again and while he was stepping on the device, Sherlock followed the invisible path upstairs. _My room!_ John thought to himself. Upon his arrival Sherlock had already identified the whereabouts of the bug. John reached under his bedside table and then he waved his hand, signalling Sherlock to show him other hiding places. Sherlock shook his head and John savoured the crack the device made when it was destroyed.

“You think that’s it?” asked John.

A nod.

“So, it must have been the craftsmen yesterday, don’t you think?” Sherlock inclined his head. “But what reason does your brother have to bug our flat?” Nothing but a frown followed John’s question, so he pressed on: “Or don’t you think that it was your brother?”

Another of those barely identifiable facial expressions that could be an affirmation or doubt. John felt his patience running out.

“What, Sherlock?” he exclaimed. “If you’re not convinced that it was your brother, who could it be? The men who wanted to kidnap me yesterday? But who were they?”

Sherlock turned away and John fought back the frustration from before, which was bubbling up again. Now, with no way to read Sherlock’s eyes, all that remained of the restricted communication was the back that expressed rejection better than anything – no, leaving the room would be even more effective! John fumed inwardly when he saw the end of the tail disappear through the door.

Furious, he stomped downstairs. “Wait, damn it!” he shouted. In the living room, John was greeted by the same forbidding back as before, only now Sherlock looked out of the window.

“What is it you’re involved in?” John asked and studied the closed wings.

 _Silence. With everyone it’s the same,_ John seethed. Even with Sherlock! Although he was supposed to be... a friend.

“No one tells me anything!” John shouted. “All I get to hear is that it’s about state secrets, and then the walls pop up in front of me! What is it with all of you? Are you waiting until I get killed?” John went to the rack and grabbed his jacket. “You know what? It would really help if you would speak with me! Just _once_!”

Nothing. Of course not. John managed to put on his shoes although his fingers didn’t want to obey him, and then he walked out of the flat without uttering another word.

 

***

 _I won’t call!_ John repeated in his head for the umpteenth time. He went through a file and then re-read it because he was sure he had missed something. Oh yes, Simone Antonini was a _man_.

“Do you know why the police were here yesterday?”

John looked up, startled. “What? No, Mike, sorry.”

“I heard it had something to do with a dragon in the neighbourhood. Of course I immediately thought of you. But never mind, do you have a minute? I’d like–”

“Listen, Mike, I’m quite busy, so maybe we can catch up later.” Refusing to meet Mike’s gaze, John grabbed the file and started walking down the corridor. He heard steps following him.

“How was the date?” Mike attempted to keep up the conversation.

“Fine,” John said curtly. “So… bye, Mike.”

He escaped into Mr Antonini’s room, convinced that Mike’s professionalism would prevent him from entering as well. Slightly breathless although he had not walked more than a couple of yards, John remained behind the door.

“Are you all right, Doctor?” he heard a brittle voice.

John closed his eyes. No, definitely not. Elevated heart rate, possibly high blood pressure, dizziness – all of those symptoms suggested that he shouldn’t make his round. _Home! That’s where I should go. And now!_

Inhaling and opening his eyes, John assumed a respectable persona, at least he hoped he did.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” he said. The sound of his voice was firm enough, belying the confusion underneath. Mr Antonini seemed to be appeased, though, as well as the following patients, John later noted with some satisfaction. Yet the amount of strength it cost him to maintain the trustworthy façade was enormous. He struggled through the hours, eagerly anticipating the end of his short shift. When it was 3 pm at last, he barely managed the transfer to his colleague properly.

It was like the day before, when he had felt like he was about to explode each second. Everything was too slow – the lift, the tube. People crossed his path, blocked the escalators or couldn’t find their tickets. Whenever an obstacle slowed his advance, John was close to shouting obscenities and when he finally climbed the stairs of Baker Street station, he was glad he had made the journey without getting arrested or beaten up.

Cab? No, jogging would be better and work off some of the excess energy. _Walk upstairs? Run upstairs!_

John fiddled with the keys until he had the right one, but something was wrong. The door needed too much force to be moved… and the flat was cold. But why? One of the large windows was open, John realised. Without thinking, he rushed through the living room and the draught made the door behind him slam shut. He looked outside. On the street and in the sky there was nothing suspicious, so he closed the window. It had to be the one that had been replaced the day before because the handle was new: suitable for large hands.

_Suitable for claws!_

“Sherlock?” John shouted, but there was no answer. “Are you in here?”

Did he have to flee? Had there been someone in the flat? John turned around and went to the rack with the van keys when his eyes were drawn to the entrance door. He switched on the light. There were letters carved into the wood.

_TAKE CARE_

“Fuck what?” John shouted. Steps were sounding on the stairs and the door opened. Peripherally he realised that Mrs Hudson entered, but he was processing too much information to be able to react to her. _The keys first. A torch. And the pistol!_ John ran upstairs and then hunted through the cupboards until he had everything.

“John?” he heard again. Mrs Hudson, of course.

“I should have called!” was all he could think of yelling at her.

“John, what are you talking about?” she asked, jumping to the side when he bolted out of the flat.

“I’m such an idiot!” he shouted on the stairs. “He could be anywhere!”

 _Really anywhere. Even in the sewers. So driving around in the van won’t do any good,_ John thought to himself. He ignited the engine regardless and set forth on a random course through London, keeping a constant eye on the sky. But as it had turned dark, he didn’t see anything clearly.

His mobile rang. No caller ID.

“Yes?” John snarled. The brother should better have some good news.

_“Mycroft Holmes here.”_

“So I reckoned,” John ground out. “I’m driving!”

_“I know. First of all, let me congratulate you, Dr Watson.”_

“What?” John jerked the wheel violently and the van swerved, almost hitting a parked car.

 _“You achieved something remarkable,”_ Mycroft said calmly. _“Sherlock flies again and I would like to thank you.”_

Small talk? Who had time for that? “What the fuck do you want?” John hissed.

The elder Holmes cleared his throat. _“The reason I am calling you is closely related to Sherlock reacquiring his skill, I’m afraid,”_ he said, completely unperturbed by John’s expletive. _“I was informed that there had been a dragon sighting in Wiltshire.”_

“Wiltshire?” John took a left turn. Now he had at least a direction.

_“Obviously the dragon tore down the weather vane of a church steeple. Do you know anything about this incident?”_

“Of course I don’t!” John paused. “Wait… did this happen somewhere near the M4?

_“A little south of it, yes.”_

“I know where he’s heading. Don’t worry, I’ll pick him up.”

_“Are you sure that I shouldn’t rather–”_

“ _I’ll_ do it,” John barked and hung up. There it was again. Obviously he was becoming territorial as well. On top of all, the motorways were congested, but despite his increasing tiredness, John found the way back to the meadow where Sherlock had practised flying. The beam of the car and then the torch first didn’t reveal anything, only the tell-tale reflections of the eyes gave away the dragon in the end.

John trudged through the muddy grass. _Calm down,_ he commanded himself. This was about Sherlock and not about his own unresolved inner turmoil.

When John had reached the dark mass cowering at the foot of the shrubbery, he knelt down in the dirt. Feeling the dampness creep through his trousers, he tried to piece together the words he needed.

“Okay, I usually don’t do declarations.” John paused to think and the green eyes that had studied some unknown spot at a distance until then focused on him, making John even tenser. “I’m sorry. For what I said,” he managed to get out at last. “If you don’t think I should know what’s going on, I have to accept it.”

Sherlock inclined his head and John’s hands reached out for the scaly forehead. He traced along the soft temples to the coarser areas around the ears.

“I don’t have to _like_ your decision,” John explained, “but if you prefer it that way...”

He saw Sherlock close his eyes in appreciation, enjoying each movement of the fingers. _Enough!_ John warned himself. _Stop right here!_ He gritted his teeth, biting down so much that it hurt, but the desperation that had driven him through the city had never released him from its grip. And now it was mixing with the day’s painful longing above all.

“But… don’t think I’d ever let you vanish like that…” he said hoarsely before he choked on his words. Sherlock looked up. Sensing his distress, he lay his head down in John’s lap and started the gentle purring that went like a caress through John’s entire body.

 _He’s comforting_ me _! Hell, I’m a rubbish doctor!_ John huffed out a weak laugh. _But I’ll be damned if I become a useless soldier too._

“I don’t care who’s conspiring against us,” he said. “But I couldn’t bear it if you left. God, I really couldn’t.” He sighed. “Listen, I have no idea what it is that… changed me. It’s driving me mad, believe me, and I’d really like to be more… rational, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” He gave Sherlock a small smile. “But I’m trying to deal with it.”

Rain started to drizzle on them, cooling John’s hands down so much that his fingers became stiff. Sherlock’s scales were getting wet too, shimmering like polished gravel.

“What do you say? Do we call it a day and go home?”

Abruptly, the head on his thighs was lifted and in the time John needed to pick up the torch, Sherlock had already flown to the van. In the cone of light, the dragon sitting on the roof looked like an oversized advertisement character. John couldn’t suppress a relieved laugh.

“You prefer open air travel or do you want to enjoy a first class load space trip?”

A wing pointed at the doors.

“All right.” John unlocked the van. “Hop in.”

With the dragon secure in the back, John steered the van along the squidgy path to the main road. When he had reached it, a look in the rear view mirror revealed the front lights of a car being switched on and coming nearer afterwards, but John dismissed the worry his military instincts conjured up.

 _Mycroft is obsessing,_ he thought to himself. Big brother could have left the cavalry at home today. In some ways he really went overboard with the care for his sibling. On the other hand, Sherlock must have got involved with some dubious characters in his human days, so perhaps a bit of watchfulness was well founded after all.

 _But Sherlock’s back. And he’s safe. Whatever dangerous forces try to meddle with our lives, they are no match for us,_ John thought to himself. A dragon. And a soldier with a gun – however small it might be in comparison to the other men’s arsenal.

He leaned into his seat and grinned. Even the low visibility in the rainy night couldn’t shake his extraordinary good mood. Sherlock was back and they were going home!

Unloading the dragon as inconspicuously as possible, parking the van, walking to the house – up to that point John had imagined everything accordingly to how it happened. Yet on their journey home, his mind had stubbornly refused to enter the flat, and the moment John stood in the living room, shivering heavily in his sodden trousers, he knew why.

Of course they would still be there – those letters Sherlock had scratched into the door as his last goodbye.

“Mrs Hudson’s going to have your head for that.”

 _Stupid jokes! Way to go,_ John admonished himself.

“Yesterday, someone else also told me to take care,” he said and sighed. “The DI who works together with your brother. But at least he gave me his card afterwards.”

John put his hands in his pockets. No attempt to gloss things over would work, he reckoned, but what kind of explanation was he expecting – from a dragon?

“Why did you do this?” he asked. Still facing the door, he had addressed the question more to himself, when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. A claw pricked the wallpaper next to the door frame and then started drawing lines.

I

AM

DANGEROUS

Disbelievingly, John read the words again and again. It was such a bewildering feeling, getting a direct answer to a question.

“No, you’re not,” he said. “You didn’t shoot at me.”

THEY WANT _ME,_ Sherlock wrote and John huffed out a laugh that sounded faked even to his own ears. “I had already guessed that.” He shook his head. “Shit, I wish I wouldn’t understand them so well,” he muttered.

The last part had slipped out against his will and, embarrassed, John looked away. To deflect Sherlock’s attention, he busied himself with getting out of his wet shoes and jacket, but afterwards, there was nothing else to do but to continue staring at the floor.

 _Stop being so pathetic!_ he chided himself. He raised his head and let himself be caught up by the gaze he knew was directed at him. Intense as always, it awakened the day’s longing and multiplied it in a heartbeat, however the eyes also made it clear that no new words would appear on the wall.

“So we’re here,” John started. The awkward silence was no comparison to the mortification he felt in the face of his cowardice. He just needed to _say_ it! Plucking up his courage, John cleared his throat. “And whatever happens between us now is... not an accident.”

Sherlock’s expression became questioning, but John could easily empathise with it. As much as his voice had quavered, the conviction he was trying to convey was still lacking.

“I…” he began again. Rubbing his chin, John was relieved to see that Sherlock engraved another message into the wallpaper.

YOU SAID

YOU’D TRY

“I know, and I want to!” John exclaimed. “God knows, there’s nothing I want more.”

Startled, John recapitulated his last words. He had said it. And it hadn’t felt as weird as he had thought it would.

“But what about _you_?” he asked. “Besides all that drivel about claims and consorts and whatnot…” He searched the dragon’s gaze. “Is this what _you_ want?

Sherlock didn’t turn away or look down, so John had nearly flinched when he felt a sharp claw graze the top of his hand. Carefully it outlined the letters

Y

E

S

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the betaing, sockeyhoccer! Halfway through! (if things go according to plan...)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter serves no purpose whatsoever, it's just part of my personal challenge regarding the question 'Can I actually write this?' (not really... unfortunately)  
> Those who don't want to answer the question 'Do I actually want to read this?' may well skip everything apart from the first and last few paragraphs :D

 In his mind, John retraced the letters on his hand.

“There will be no stopping… this... you know that,” he said and inhaled, keeping the adrenalin that was chasing his pulse under control. _No stopping,_ his mind repeated. _But bloody hell, who’d want to?_

His hands were eager to touch the scales and he was already reaching out for them when a last rational thought managed to penetrate his increasingly misty mind.

“Shower?” was all he got out and he took a few steps backwards. Sherlock shook his head. Slowly, the dragon went on all fours, his body tensing.

 _Danger’s beckoning,_ flitted through John’s head when he saw a flash of white canine. A peculiar tingling ran down his spine and before he could make sense of it, arousal broke forth like a cataclysmic earthquake.

“Right,” John gasped. Frantically, he tried to do several things at once: getting out of his muddy trousers, hopping in the direction of the bedroom and – the most difficult of all – breathing.

“I’m… I...” he stuttered. A trouser leg proved fatal for his balance and he was already preparing for a rather painful impact with the floor when Sherlock pounced at last. John felt the sharp teeth biting his shirt, but it didn’t tear. Carefully, Sherlock deposited him on the floor.

“And...” _now_? John’s brain deleted the last word because in a flash, Sherlock’s teeth disappeared from the shirt and the dragon’s tongue slid into John’s briefs to wrap itself around the hardening cock.

“Not so fast!” John begged, but like the last time, Sherlock didn’t show any mercy.  The tongue twined around the tip, making John’s entire system shut down in breathless anticipation.

“Sher–” he managed to press out and then he was reduced to a hub of all the bottled-up desire that could finally unload, the muscle curling around his pumping cock the only thing grounding him during his climax.

“Let me just…” John panted. Yet when Sherlock retreated, the idea of some rest to catch his breath suddenly became unbearable. _Too far away,_ John’s mind informed him. _Need to… touch!_ He tried to sit up, but Sherlock turned around and dashed towards the bedroom.

“Wait! Damn it!” shouted John. He struggled to his feet and out of his trousers. Buttons popped in the wake of his fight with his shirt.

 _I’m not the only one who’s keyed up,_ John thought when he crossed the threshold and approached the bed. He gaped at the display of blatant arousal he was greeted with and the brief moment of hesitation was too long for Sherlock. Now it was the dragon who caused John’s fall.

Not caring which part of him had landed on the mattress and which on the floor, John reached out for the hard flesh of the phallus. He quickly strengthened his grip, hoping that he’d achieve the right amount of pressure for a desperate dragon, and Sherlock shoved it into the hands, the heat rapidly increasing in the rippled organ.

 _Any second now. Just a squeeze, a minute movement_... John clutched more firmly, sensing Sherlock’s imminent climax. Closing his eyes when the deep growl intensified, John almost felt like he was rushing towards completion himself.  Finally, Sherlock came like an elemental force erupting. He dove down on the hot liquid spreading on John’s stomach, trapping John’s hand. Only slowly, his movements became less urgent, but he didn’t seem to be able to draw back.

“This should have taken the edge off, shouldn’t it?” John asked when the growl turned into the well-known pleasant purr and incredulously, he felt every square inch of his skin crave the subtly vibrating body. Sherlock snorted and retreated to forcefully push his snout into John’s ribs and roll him over on his belly.

NOT IN THE LEAST, he wrote on John’s shoulders and then the claw left a sharp trail down the back, followed by the tongue that soothed the sting.

 _Too much. More. Too early!_ John was so caught up in new sensations that he couldn’t even muster a surprised gasp when the tongue’s tip briefly squeezed through his sphincter. It didn’t linger, though, but slid downwards to caress what it could reach of the balls, making John squirm away and push into the teasing – depending on which command his overtaxed brain fired at him.

Closing his eyes, John tried to reconcile his own desperate need and his physical shortcomings. _Get used to it,_ he admonished himself. You’re trying to keep up with a _dragon_ , for God’s sake! After all, it didn’t matter what they did, as long as they were doing _something_ and this raving need would stop eventually. _It would, wouldn’t it?_ John wondered.

 _Not now, though,_ was his body’s feedback.

“Move up to me,” John commanded and clasped dragon’s phallus that stood out just as prominently as at the beginning of their tryst. He steered Sherlock on his back and then sat astride the tail, its smooth, scaly root a stimulating novelty for John’s balls. But John ignored the weak stirring in his own groin. Instead, he curiously explored the rim of the pouch and its hot, soft inside until Sherlock started to tremble.

John let his fingers carefully search the spot between the tail and the penis, to find the hidden entrance he knew would be there. It wasn’t long before he detected the gap between the scales and immediately, the images he had seen during his last research tormented him again. With some effort, he forced himself to return to his initial object of study – no matter how much he wanted to probe the opening.

He bent down to the dark red penis and tasted the hard tip. Yes, this was different from anything he had ever encountered. Not tangy, not salty, but with an earthy aroma. He gave the saliva coated tip a hard rub and suddenly, Sherlock roared so loudly that John whipped back, startled. Frantically pushing into the hand, the dragon climaxed, emptying himself again – _after a single touch,_ John thought, astonished, and he gathered some of the liquid that spread on Sherlock’s belly.

Experimentally enclosing his fingers around his own penis, John revelled in the slickness he met. His cock was growing in his hand, but before he could give a thought to what he wanted to do with his newfound readiness to perform, Sherlock sat up and bent down. He removed John’s hands with his tongue and the wiggly muscle pulled gently until it could tie John’s cock to the rock-hard phallus of the dragon.

“What the…?” John choked on a moan. This time, Sherlock’s didn’t race him to completion, but rather kept him on the edge, and after a while, John could barely stay upright. Helplessly, he held on to the prominent scales at the back of Sherlock’s head and, legs trembling, he let his cock be manipulated by the serpentine tongue until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Fuck… I have to…” John wheezed and Sherlock allowed him to come at last. Riding out the tremors as well as he could, he hoped for some well-deserved satisfaction that would cool down his desires. He gratefully collapsed on Sherlock when the dragon lay back.

 _Peace? No, it’s not yet the time, it seems. But there should at least be some sort of slow-down of the whirling in my head, shouldn’t there?_ John thought, sensing simultaneously that his mind and body were craving more. God, why hadn’t all of this been enough? He had the impression that every cell in him was driving him towards the dragon, even despite the fact that he felt so utterly drained that he could have immediately fallen asleep.

“Can’t stop,” he muttered, “but… can’t…”

The tip of Sherlock’s tail drew letters on John’s back. It then followed the path the tongue had taken earlier while John’s groggy mind was still trying to decipher the words.

I CAN

The hard tip twisted and then brushed past John’s balls, its dangerous top scales facing downwards. With his last ounce of strength, John tried to imagine what the dragon was doing now and those pictures mingled with what his senses still perceived, forming a bewildering mixture of fantasy and reality.

The only thing he _knew_ was that he was being rocked gently. There were movements of the tail that was pressing against his balls, the body under him was writhing in pleasure and its heat increased – and despite the moments in which he drifted off to sleep, John felt the deep growl when Sherlock came. The world spun and he was rolled over before everything was like always again: with a wing covering him and the solid body to lean into – reasons enough to keep his mind from coaxing him back to wakefulness.

 

***

A gurgling. John blinked and tried to locate the origin of the odd sound. There it was again. _Oh, of course. It’s me,_ he thought. His stomach was rumbling and he was feeling positively ravenous.

Rolling over, he mentally added that he was sticky and completely worn out. And, first and foremost, blindingly desperate to touch Sherlock.

“Damn… how am I going to survive today?” he swore. Just when his fingers made contact with the scales, Sherlock shifted and John felt the claw on his back.

MEET ME ON THE ROOF, it outlined.

“You mean of the hospital?” John asked.

YES

“But that’s madness,” John retorted. He extracted himself from the wing, but after getting up, showering and cooking, he wasn’t so sure about his doubts anymore.

Sherlock ate the steaks and then gave John a stern look before went to the new window.

“Okay, meet you on the roof,” John conceded and Sherlock pulled at the handle with his claw. Cold wind blew into the room and the dragon hopped onto the window sill to peek outside. Pushing himself off by his hind legs, he lunged out of the window, opened his wings, and, just like that, he was gone.

 _Possessive, sure,_ John thought, _but after the episode in the market a bit of precaution might not be wrong._ And Sherlock would be near all the time!

With renewed enthusiasm, John set off for work. He was not leaving Sherlock, he was, in fact, going _to_ him and he would be there, just some floors up. Waiting.

 _For me_.

John rushed to the hospital although he wasn’t late. Feeling exceedingly jittery, he checked his watch every ten minutes and wished for the time to pass more quickly. Then, at noon, he could finally climb the metal stairs to the roof. Hidden from the view of pedestrians and the windows of neighbouring buildings, Sherlock lay flat on the ground, and John sat down on the wing that invited him over.

“Cold, isn’t it?” he asked, his pulse finally slowing down. He let his fingers trail along the area where the wings blended into the back and where strength and flexibility were combining most notably. “It’s still another five hours.” John sighed. “You’d better stay here until I’m home at about half five. It’ll be dark then and I can open–” His mobile vibrated and he extracted it from his trousers’ pocket. “Sorry, wait a minute.”

 _“You have to stop that,”_ the familiar voice greeted John.

“Hello Mycroft, good day to you too.”

 _“John, you shouldn’t take this lightly,”_ the elder Holmes scolded him. _“It has become almost impossible to control the press.”_

“The press?” John repeated.

 _“Do you really think a dragon on Barts would go unnoticed?”_ Mycroft asked incredulously. _“This is London!”_

“Sherlock seemed worried about my safety,” John explained. “Because of Monday, I mean.”

 _“Fine,”_ Mycroft spat. _“But tell him security measures have been increased and there is no need to cause a public spectacle.”_

Sherlock grunted.

“He heard you,” John said.

 _“Good. Enjoy your break and the rest of your work day,”_ Mycroft replied and hung up.

“Your brother’s right,” John said. “You _are_ a spectacle.” He closed his eyes, grinning to himself. Mycroft would surely have enough lawyers at hand to fight off the press. After all, Sherlock was not a public figure and privacy laws didn’t make a distinction between scales and skin.

As long as he could, John remained on the roof before he had to go back to work. _Work._ As if it was possible to focus on that when the mind was constantly occupied with a dragon two floors up! Thankfully, there were no complicated cases on the ward, and also the fact that John hunted for all kinds of samples went unnoticed. Even Bertram from urology didn’t ask why there was the sudden necessity for chemical assistance.

Already after alighting from the tube, John popped the blue pill and its effect became noticeable when he climbed the stairs in Baker Street 221B. Inside the flat, he ripped the window open and was instantly toppled over by the dragon shooting into the room.

“Wait a minute!” John jumped up again and threw the window shut. He shrugged out of his jacket and quickly unbuttoned his shirt while following Sherlock, who was already leaping towards the bedroom. Almost stumbling and falling, John got rid of his shoes and trousers on his way.

He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s confirmation written on his shoulders, it was enough that the moment John slid to his knees, a tail wrapped around his middle and pulled him to the scaly body. It shoved him forwards, giving him barely enough time to feel for the small gap and position himself.

“Holy... fuck …too hot!” John gasped when he sank into what felt like an inferno. Grabbing the root of the hardness that had sprung up from its confinement, John tried to steady himself and establish some sort of rhythm that would save his cock from bursting into flames. Only gradually he got used to the cruel heat and could coordinate his movements better, losing himself in the friction that embraced his member like a red-hot sheath.

Sweat dripped from John’s forehead and the tail let go of him, surrendering control. Squeezing his eyes shut, John tried to focus on what he was doing: Rub the shaft and not just hold on to it, slow down his shoves – but he gave up in the end. The pent-up lust of the previous hours was simply too strong, and this bloody pill was doing nothing, _absolutely nothing_ to rein it in!

“I can’t… hold back…” he gasped and let his hips snap forwards. The rigid flesh he clasped immediately felt like it started to blaze, but John was beyond caring for anything apart from his own desire. It was cumulating at the tip of his cock, smouldering in scalding velvet, and somewhere in the back of his head, John heard the roar and processed the fact that his hand was getting slick. The moment though, when his own tension was released and lust claimed his entire system, the floodgates were finally opened for a myriad of sensations crashing in. He drove into the inviting heat as long as the quakes of his orgasm allowed it, savouring the connection with the addictively pulsing energy.

“I wouldn’t have needed... the pill for this,” panted John. He reluctantly pulled out of the opening and shivered when room temperature cooled down his cock. “Bloody hell, I’m done for.” He lay down on the mattress, his eyes closing immediately.

Only the excitement stayed.

“Wouldn’t we have needed lube?” he mumbled. “I nicked some from radiology, you know.”

NOT NECESSARY, the tip of the tail wrote. John huffed out a weak laugh.

“Pretty tough, you dragons,” he said. Sherlock shifted but John was too lazy to find out why, only when the tongue started gliding down his spine, his spirits were revived a little. 

“What you did, last night,” he began. “I think I was half asleep most of the time, but it felt like you used your tail… I mean… damn it!”

The tongue had sped downwards and was showing him exactly what Sherlock had performed on himself with the help of his tail. John bit his lip, suppressing a shout when the deft muscle penetrating him pressed down on his prostate.

“Too early…” he rasped, but Sherlock didn’t relent and instead continued the onslaught. _Perhaps he smelled the substance in my blood,_ flashed through John’s mind. _No, the reason’s even more obvious,_ he corrected himself. John could practically touch the raging desire in the air because he felt it too. Sherlock’s craving was as palpable as his own. All-encompassing, devastating, and it simply didn’t go away, no matter what they did.

John closed his eyes, yielding to the pleasurable intrusion of the strong muscle. _Perhaps we didn’t go far enough._

“I’ve…” He swallowed. “I’ve got some samples in my jacket. A relaxant. Something to numb…”

Instantly the tongue disappeared and John heard a growl.

NO, the claw wrote forcefully, almost tearing through skin.

“I need more, you hear me?” John said through clenched teeth and impatiently endured the next letters.

I WILL NOT HURT YOU

“I don’t care!” John rolled over and flashed his eyes at Sherlock. “This is driving me insane!”

He could only vaguely perceive the bared teeth, but the low growl was unmistakeable.

“Oh please, it’s too late to scare me off.” For a moment, John was torn between bitterness and genuine amusement. “If anything, this is making it worse!” he muttered when he couldn’t hide a grin anymore. “Listen, I don’t want to force you, it’s just...”

He focused on the letters that were now being written on his chest.

I UNDERSTAND

Carefully, Sherlock rubbed his hardness along John’s hypersensitive penis.

“Who am I kidding? I don’t think I’d be able to engage in _anything_ at the moment,” John admitted tiredly. “But it’s too strong... this… I don’t know, this urge.”

Sherlock’s wings pushed against John’s lower legs, causing the knees to bend.

“What are you–?” John started, but Sherlock interrupted him. TOUCH YOURSELF, he wrote.

John complied and the dragon shrank back while the wings’ pressure in the other direction was increasing. Only teasing his sore hardness that was purely a product of chemical stimulation, John was still trying to make sense of his curious position when suddenly the tongue was back. Its forked tip lightly massaged John’s entrance before it wormed its way through it, targeting the spot it had so easily found before.

“Sherlock…” John’s objection died on his tongue because he felt like passing out, each nerve ending nearing overload. Arousal pooled in his groin and he stopped touching his cock, succumbing to the rhythm of the tongue and the almost agonising lust it elicited. His vision swam and the force of his orgasm was only a blinding flash of bliss, flaring up before John’s mind gratefully plunged into darkness.

 

 ***

 _Night. Regular, quiet breathing._ Of their own accord, John’s eyes closed again. Everything was all right.

To find a more comfortable position, he moved his head and the wing covering him stirred. It felt a bit different though, John’s half-asleep mind realised. Not like a wing at all, actually.

John snapped his eyes open. _Regular, quiet breathing!_ _Nothing is all right!_

“Sherlock?” he asked tentatively. The weight on him disappeared and instead there was shuffling. John whipped around. A mop of dark curls, a pale shoulder – but they disappeared in the silent explosion that transformed the flesh into scales.

“What? Sherlock!” John shouted. The dragon, who was about to jump to his feet, stumbled but then caught himself. He leaped to the window and John’s blood froze the moment the glass gave way with a sickening bang.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much, my beta sockeyhoccer, for sticking with me!


	12. Chapter 12

The room was getting cold and the wind clawed away the warmth from John’s skin. He felt his body start to shiver but it was oddly detached – almost as if someone else was experiencing this sensation.

His mind completely blank, he stared at the broken window which was dangling awkwardly on the two remaining hinges. The draught moved it occasionally and at some point a shard loosened and fell down, landing in the court behind the house with an almost noiseless clanking.

John didn’t know how long he had remained on the mattress, but he must have got up eventually although he couldn’t really recall _how_. Climbing the stairs to his room was the first conscious action after what felt like days.

 _Dress. Get keys_. The procedures of two days ago had got ingrained so much that he didn’t need any planning, and only later, in London’s nightly traffic, some degree of attention was demanded of him again. John took the same route as the last time, finding the correct streets like a sleepwalker. The bumpy path to the field woke him up at last, but it was the realisation that he had forgotten the torch which brought reality back like a brutal chokehold.

John positioned the van so that the lights faced towards the meadow, yet the wall effectively blocked the full beam.

“Fuck!” he swore. He climbed over the wall and in the eerie glow of the diffuse light, he ran across the grass. Tripping more than advancing at a steady pace, he aimed for the dark area he had thought to see from the other end of the meadow. When he reached the shrubs though, there was nothing. Just an elevation in the ground that cast an irregular shadow.

“No, no, no!” he shouted. “Sherlock?”

But there was no answer. Not a single sound could be heard. Frustrated, John plodded back to the van. He ignited the engine and then couldn’t think of a way to proceed.

 _Where are you?_ he wondered. Simply because no other place came to his mind, he decided to go back to London and search the street where he had first seen Sherlock. When he was driving around his old neighbourhood at last, with no sign of Sherlock, it felt as if he was revisiting a life that he had long left behind.

He parked in the narrow street, but the roadworks were gone and without his tool, he couldn’t get any of the manhole covers off. Crouching in front of a drain, he called Sherlock’s name.

 _I must look like a total nutter,_ he thought to himself and got up again to fetch his mobile from his jacket. “Time to call the bloody cavalry.” He felt for the card he had pocketed, typed in the numbers, and impatiently waited for an answer.

 _“Hello?”_ rasped a tired voice.

“Detective Inspector? It’s me, John Watson.”

For a short while there was silence in the line. _“Oh, yes, John Watson, sorry,”_ Lestrade said. _“Is there a problem?”_ he asked, now considerably more awake.

“Sherlock’s disappeared,” said John. This should do as a proper alarm.

 _“What?”_ the inspector asked. _“When? How?”_

 _Oh shit, I should have thought that over,_ flitted through John’s head.

“We… had an argument,” he lied, “and he, well, flipped out somehow.”

 _“But he didn’t set anything on fire, did he?”_ Lestrade’s worried voice followed immediately.

“No, no,” John reassured him.

 _“And how long has he been missing?”_ the inspector continued and John checked his mobile.

“Four hours.”

 _“Oh, that’s…”_ Lestrade cleared his throat _. “That’s not very long. Of course I could file him as a missing person but, well, I’m sure if someone had seen him, there’d be material on the internet and his brother would take care of the situation.”_

“I cannot rely on him calling me, though,” said John. “But I hope this isn’t the case with you.”

 _“Of course not, no! I’ll immediately get in touch once I hear something, I promise,”_ Lestrade appeased him. _“And don’t worry, he’ll come back. He has done this before, you know. Perhaps it’s just a misunderstanding.”_

 _Not very likely._ “You’re right,” John said instead. “Thank you.”

He hung up and scrolled through the calls he had received, choosing the last one without a caller ID. No one answered the phone.

“Are you kidding me? _Now_ you’re unreachable?” John cursed. He got into the van and drove to Baker Street. Finding a parking lot took him almost half an hour and when he finally approached the front door of the house, he heard loud voices from within. Tentatively, he peeked into the hallway.

“... hadn’t been for him, they would have locked me away together with my useless husband!” Mrs Hudson shouted. “The embassy did nothing. _You_ did nothing!”

“My hands were tied.”

 _Mycroft_ , John thought and squeezed himself through the crack of the door. In the unlit hallway, he could only identify the two persons by their strikingly different heights.

“When he started helping me, you said that he was poking his nose into things that didn’t concern him,” Mrs Hudson barked. “But it was _him_ who made sure the blame was put on whom it belonged!”

“I’m aware of that,” Mycroft said. John’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the low light and he saw the tall figure turning towards him. “Good evening, John. I’m here to–”

“God knows what happened to him afterwards!” Mrs Hudson continued and the tall shadow flinched. “Half a year and suddenly he’s gone. Disappeared from the face of the earth!” There was a short pause with some snivelling. “He had always been such a troubled young man, but he looked up to you, Mycroft, and you were the one who could bring his feet to the ground.”

John felt for the switch and the light went on the moment Mycroft’s face contorted into utter grief. As quickly as it had been illuminated, it assumed its usual mien, though.

“You always said that as a dragon, he wouldn’t be so vulnerable!” Mrs Hudson shrieked. “But that’s rubbish! You just wanted to stop me asking what happened to him!”

Bursting into tears, she fended off John’s attempt to console her and instead opened her door to vanish through it and then slam it into his face. Mycroft cleared his throat.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he said and led the way. Completely bewildered, John followed him. What had those two been talking about? Mrs Hudson’s husband had been involved, and he had obviously gone to prison because of Sherlock’s doing – something she seemed to be thankful for. And the rest? She was blaming Mycroft for abandoning Sherlock, so much was clear, and John didn’t find this hard to believe. _Who the fuck would let his brother vegetate in the sewers for ten years?_

John unlocked the door. He wondered which lies the elder brother was going to trot out now.

“You’ve turned this into a decent place,” Mycroft remarked when the lights were switched on.

John grunted. _Smalltalk again._ “But we need a new bedroom window,” he said and a miniature frown appeared on Mycroft’s forehead. “I thought this is why you’re here,” John went on. “Check for yourself what Lestrade told you. Assess the damage.”

John took his time to glower at Mycroft who, in turn, pinched his lips and then marched towards the bedroom. Making sure that the door to the flat was open wide enough so that it wouldn’t snap shut on its own, John followed him.

“What happened?” Mycroft asked, inspecting what was left of the window.

 _Good thing I already rehearsed the story_ , John thought. A man like Mycroft would surely see through a clumsy lie.

“We were up late, especially because Sherlock had chosen to ruin the bathroom by flooding it. I told him I was not his valet and he ignored me. When I became a bit more insistent, he threw a fit.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. It looked as if he was debating with himself if he should accept the explanation despite the fact that he knew that it was made up.

“He can be… unreasonable at times,” Mycroft said with a sigh. He walked out of the bedroom and John assumed that he would leave altogether, but instead he remained next to the exit, clearly expecting more information.

John crossed his arms on his chest. Whatever Mycroft wanted, this time he would have to offer something in return, John decided.

“What did Mrs Hudson mean when she said Sherlock was a troubled young man?” he asked and it was obvious that this was the kind of topic Mycroft didn’t want to pursue.

“Nothing in particular,” he hedged. “He was similar to other cases: He didn’t finish his studies, there was a brief episode of drug use…”

“Drugs?” John asked incredulously. “But he’s a dragon! Drugs would barely have any effect.”

A thin smile answered him, as well as a pause that served as an obvious prelude to the words Mycroft now consciously chose to divulge.

“Dr Watson,” he began, advancing a step forwards. “Although you _think_ you know my brother, I can assure you that this is _not_ the case.”

Answering the stare with the same kind of perseverance, John needed a moment to calm down his anger. What was the fucker thinking, lecturing him about Sherlock?

“So, tell me, as you’re the _expert_ , Mycroft,” he spat, “where is he? Mm? Where did he go?”

“I didn’t mean…”

“And while you’re at it,” John continued, his voice trembling with rage, “explain to me why Mrs Hudson thinks that you failed your brother. Because living in the sewers for ten years? Something rather traumatic must’ve happened, but where were you, Mycroft?” He stepped forwards, refusing to let himself be intimidated by the other man’s height. “I’m pretty sure the moment this web of lies comes apart, you’re _not_ the hero. Aren’t I right?” he hissed.

His jaws visibly working, Mycroft remained frozen otherwise. His gaze went through John, lost somewhere at a distance.

“Did it ever cross your mind…?” Mycroft began in a quiet voice that John could barely discern.

“What?” he demanded.

“That he didn’t want to be like that?” Mycroft finished.

“Like what? A dragon?” John asked. “But it’s a genetic mutation, there’s no way…”

“This does not mean he accepted it, does it?” Mycroft interjected.

“What the fuck do you mean?” John asked. “The way he’s living now shows that he must have come to terms with it.”

“Not necessarily,” said Mycroft eventually and turned to go. “He’ll come back,” he muttered on the threshold, more to himself than to John.

 _A piece of the puzzle is missing here,_ John thought, but with the mental walls being raised, there was no way to get through to Mycroft. _Again!_ Could this become any more frustrating?

“Let’s hope that if there’s trouble, at least his _kind_ will spring him free – if his _family_ doesn’t,” John called after him and Mycroft stopped for a second.

“I’ll send a repair team.”

 _He changed the topic!_ John seethed inwardly.

“Wait!” he shouted. “Why didn’t you just nod or something? The others will help him, won’t they? He’s not out there, defenceless?”

“He’s a dragon,” was the answer of the figure on the landing.

“What? Damn it, Mycroft!” John was on the verge of following him downstairs, but instead he balled his hands into fists, swallowing his wrath. What good would it do to show that bastard what it meant to mess with a soldier? “Don’t bother to bug our flat this time,” he growled.

These words had caught Mycroft’s interest at last. He returned to the landing and frowned at John.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“We found the devices,” John explained. _The look on his face: he really didn’t know,_ he thought simultaneously. “Never mind, I just wanted to make sure.”

He slammed the door shut. TAKE CARE it reminded him silently, tearing through John’s fragile mental veneer like a butcher’s knife.

 

****

He called in sick, and unlike the last time he had opted out of work, he didn’t even feel guilty because going by the way his body refused to cooperate in even minimally exhausting tasks, John was sure that he _was_ sick.

He lingered in the kitchen, waiting for the craftsmen to arrive, but he couldn’t even bring himself to boiling the kettle. Everything felt wrong. The things around him were not his, and with Sherlock gone, the only aspect that connected the old and the new life was missing.

It even became worse when the workmen invaded the flat, noisily pursuing their routines without paying attention to the man who was watching them. Trying to detect if the three looked suspicious, John observed their every move and when they left, he searched the bathroom where one of the men had briefly disappeared to.

Nothing. Mycroft seemed to have taken extra care with the choice of this company, John thought when he returned to the bedroom to inspect their work. The same handle as in the living room had been installed, but the rest of it looked like before the incident – as if nothing had happened at all. 

What sign was there left of Sherlock anyway? A large mattress with only one quilt and one pillow – _all mine_ –,  armchairs Sherlock couldn’t have sat in, books he couldn’t read on his own… There was nothing _Sherlock_ , though, only the remains of a strange human about whom John knew nothing.

 _Perhaps Mycroft was right,_ flashed through his head. _I really don’t know a lot about Sherlock._

Grudgingly, John followed his grumbling stomach’s demands into the kitchen and in the fridge he found a trace of Sherlock at last. The meat was occupying two shelves, accusing John of his negligence.

 _We didn’t have dinner._ Sherlock would be hungry right now. Wherever he was, he surely wouldn’t have found a reliable source of food if he wanted to stay undetected.

 _It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want to be found,_ John thought, shutting the fridge’s door so vehemently that everything inside was rattling. _I need to find him!_

Determined, he took a package of biscuits and a bottle of orange juice from the cupboard and put them in a plastic bag before he left the house. Already on the way to the van, he ripped open the package and forced himself to eat something – on an empty stomach, it wasn’t advisable to drive. And drive he would, because the other option was staying in the flat, waiting for some sign of life, and this would surely cost him his sanity.

After half the distance to the meadow, John stopped to have a coffee. It didn’t really revive him, but at least helped him to stay awake until he reached the narrow path at the end of his journey.

In contrast to a couple of hours ago, he followed it a bit further. It had rained in the meanwhile, so John wasn’t sure if he interpreted the traces correctly, but it looked as if a vehicle had left the dirt road and driven onto the grass of the neighbouring patch of land. John got out of the van to inspect the makeshift wooden gate. There was a heavy wire that he assumed would be wrapped around the gate to keep it from opening, but someone had simply left it hanging on one of the poles.

John followed the tire tracks in the meadow towards the point where they suddenly stopped. A mole hill looked flattened, or rather the dirt was haphazardly spread around, indicating some sort of activity. Could this be connected to the other piece of land? John wondered. The stone wall between the fields was barely discernible, reduced to a heap of rubble, overgrown with grass. Not far from it was the shrubbery where he had found Sherlock the last time and if one looked closely, there were sporadic irregularities in the ground that might suggest that a heavy object had been dragged across the meadow. A loose stone in the wall, grass that seemed even more trampled down than the rest...

John pursued the traces over the wall and towards the bushes. If they were traces at all, that is! Granted, they were weak, covered by the sogginess of the ground, but all of this couldn’t be purely by chance, could it?

He marched up and down the meadow, trying to find something that might serve as hard evidence, but there was nothing, just the queasy feeling that something wasn’t right – especially in the light of what Mycroft had and _hadn’t_ said.

_Sherlock could be in danger._

Would Lestrade send a forensics team on the basis of loose pebbles and abnormal mole hills? Likely not, John reckoned, and he got into the van to drive back home. Yet what was there to do once he arrived? Stare at the phone? Stay somewhere else?

 _No, too complicated,_ he decided. What was he supposed to tell Mike if he asked him to stay at his house? Or Harry? Yet the dread of returning to the empty flat made John stop at the motorway services and he forced down some tasteless chips before resuming his path. Thankfully, Mrs Hudson didn’t confront him when he entered 221B, perhaps she wasn’t at home or she had had enough drama with Mycroft.

A teary old lady was nothing John was keen on dealing with at the moment.  The empty flat was bad enough. John fried a steak to fill the rooms with a familiar smell.  After just two bites, though, he put it in the fridge because the mental images of the hungry dragon were coming back full force. He tried to sleep in his own bed, tossing and turning although he was dog tired, until finally, at midnight, he accepted the fact that he had to go the bedroom downstairs. There at least Sherlock’s lingering smell took away some of the devastating longing.

During the night, John woke up, instinctively reaching for the hardness that was straining against his briefs. There was no quick relief, though, because something was missing, and only when John buried his nose in the mattress, inhaling the aroma he thought to sense, the frantic pumping of his cock had the desired effect at last.

Groggy and on edge at the same time, he went under the shower, immersing himself in the scalding jet until his skin felt like peeling off. He grabbed his quilt and went to the sofa to sleep there, yet it wasn’t the neutral ground he had hoped for – nothing in this flat was. It either reminded him too much of the lonely past he had thought he had left behind or it screamed at him that the future he had glimpsed at had already come to an end.

Before Mrs Hudson could consider checking on him the next day, John left the house. Perhaps Sherlock was lurking somewhere, watching over him from the rooftops.

 _Ridiculous_ , John scorned himself. He aimed towards the supermarket to give his excursion a semblance of normalcy. However, he didn’t buy more than a few basic items before he left it again, bumping into a middle-aged woman in business attire.

“Sorry,” John said, but she was already proceeding down one of the isles. _They should really do something about this entrance,_ John mused. That young guy he had collided with was also...

John stopped dead in his tracks. _That man! The day I met him, I was right! There was something familiar about him!_

“Fuck!” John swore and an elderly man turned his head in surprise. “Sorry,” John shouted in passing. As fast as he could, he ran down the street.

 _I’m such an idiot!_ he thought frantically. _I didn’t know the_ man _! It was the bloody_ jacket _!_

After the encounter in Smithfield Market, it should have occurred to him that it had been the jacket he had recognised. The guy who had abducted him from the hospital had worn it too. It didn’t have a military emblem, but John knew he had seen it among the gear of a military police unit.

So although the guy at Barts had worn a baseball cap and had surely not been captured by any of the cameras – otherwise Lestrade would have passed on a picture – John remembered the sleeve of the jacket. And this was a lot better than the indistinct features John saw after Sherlock had smashed the guy into the gate.

Those two wearing the same jacket couldn’t be coincidence! John hastened upstairs and just threw the entire bag with the groceries into the fridge. _Stan will know!_ he thought and hunted for the number in an old notebook. _And even better: Stan will tell!_

Fortunately the call was passed on to a mobile and quickly, Stan’s high-pitched voice answered him.

_“Yes?”_

“John Watson,” John said and an audible exhale followed at the other end of the line.

_“How can I help you?”_

John overcame the guilt that reprimanded him for using a personal debt from Afghanistan in such a way. Surely Stan knew that John wouldn’t phone him during work if it wasn’t for something that was related to his access to the military database.

“I’m sorry to bother you, really,” John began,” but I need to know if there was an incident or a dishonourable discharge of some recruit of the service police. As young as he was and by the jacket he wore, he must have been in Portsmouth. Tall, dark blond curls?”

_“Mm, wait a minute.”_

“It’s really important, you know, I–”

 _“I’ve got someone. Is it him?”_ Stan asked and before John could react, he received a text with a photo attached. The slightly blurred shot of the monitor showed exactly the young man from the supermarket.

“Yes, it’s him! Can you give me his last address?” John asked.

 _“No problem,”_ Stan said curtly and hung up.

“Thank you,” John whispered to his mobile when it announced another text. Saving Stan’s foot when the other doctors had already given up on it had paid off in more than the fact that he had prevented an amputation. Stan’s promise he’d do anything if John needed help one day should have resulted in something else than a breach of secrecy though.

John pocketed his gun and the torch and headed west again. Not daring to park the van anywhere near the small house in Harlington, John left it a little down the street and walked the rest of the way. The neighbourhood seemed friendly, just the house where André Smith was living belonged to the rather shabby fronts – hardly surprising, as it was situated next to the railway.

When it became dark, John left his position behind a bus station and parked the van in the vicinity of the house. If Smith left in a hurry, it would be necessary to get into the van quickly, John decided. Provided that the man actually lived in the house.

For hours and hours, John maintained his position, hunger and tiredness wearing him down, and he had almost given up when, shortly after midnight, the front door opened and the young guy from the supermarket left. Wide awake in an instant, John couldn’t believe his luck. He waited until the man had got into an old compact car and driven halfway down the street. Only then did John ignite the engine.

It was tough to follow the small car through the side streets Smith used. Going by the distance and the direction, John estimated that they had to be in Slough already, and the warehouses starting to line the streets confirmed his suspicion. Smith took a right and John slowly proceeded after him until he could get a look at the narrow road, and the moment he did, he frantically switched off the light. The car stood parked at the kerb and Smith was just vanishing through a small entrance in the wall surrounding a piece of land.

“Shit!” John swore. He drove on, trying to find out what was behind the wall, but all he saw were rotten signs of a former business and warnings that forbid trespassing. He could spot the roof of a building, though – an old, abandoned warehouse by all appearances.

 _And now?_ John took out his mobile, but decided against calling Lestrade. What if Smith was just some kid meeting his friends to have a party? _Getting the cavalry out here to find out that I constructed evidence where there is none?_

John parked the van around a corner and stole into the premises neighbouring the warehouse. A lot of scrap metal and a partly dismantled trekker made it possible for him to climb over the wall and luckily, there was a veritable wilderness on the other side, with shrubs growing everywhere. Although they had lost most of their leaves, John hoped they would provide enough cover.

Slowly he was inching towards the entrance of the building, when suddenly there was a sound. John ducked and whipped out his gun.

“…fucker give you any trouble?” The voice belonged to someone young.

“Nah. The beast’s been out all the time,” answered an obviously older man. The door opened wide and John made out two shadows. “Boy, I’m knackered.”

“Yeah, piss off already.”

There was laughter and the door closed. Purposefully, the older man walked towards the wall and left through the metal entrance John had seen Smith use.

His legs cramping, just like his hand, which was holding onto his gun like a lifeline, John tried to order his thoughts. All of this couldn’t be an accident: their words, the clandestine hiding place – put together with the other evidence, the picture was getting much clearer now.

Nervously, he fiddled for his mobile and chose Lestrade’s number. The signal was very low, but eventually the call was patched through.

_“Dr Watson?”_

“Listen, Inspector, I don’t have much time to explain,” John whispered urgently. “I’m convinced that they have Sherlock–”

 _“Who’s they?”_ Lestrade interrupted him.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” John hissed. “You have to send backup. I’ll text you my location.”

_“What? Wait! Are they armed?”_

“Of course they’re armed! They abducted a dragon, damn it!” John couldn’t believe the man’s nerve.

 _“All right, all right,”_ Lestrade said. _“Don’t worry. I’m on my way. Just hang on!”_

John ended the call and switched over to the map to send a text with his location.

 _Hang on?_ he thought and peeked at the building that lay in complete darkness. _Not a chance!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, too much plot, I know. It keeps getting in the way. But thanks so much, sockeyhoccer, for enduring it :)


	13. Chapter 13

Barely breathing, John crept along the wall of the building. Each snapping twig made him freeze and only when it was completely still again, he dared to move on. Almost halfway around the warehouse, he came across a small window he could reach with his hand. He felt for any weaknesses and found a small hole, the starting point of a diagonal crack.

Carefully, John broke the window, wrapping his hand in his jacket’s sleeve to avoid cutting his skin. He held on to the part of the glass that would most likely drop to the floor, and, one after the other, he pulled the glass out of the frame. _Three cheers to single glazing,_ he thanked his luck.

Tentatively, he reached inside and felt for a handle. The window opened, but now there was the problem of getting inside. Cursing his height, John searched for something he could use as a step, however he only stumbled upon an old tire. It would have to do, he decided, and leaned it against the wall. It added enough height to make it possible for him to pull himself through the window. He didn’t even have enough time to check what was on the other side when his fingers realised that they had nothing to hold on to and, like a sandbag, he slumped to the floor.

Violently biting back the shout that wanted to burst forth when he landed on his shoulder, John jumped to his feet and whipped out his gun while skidding against a wall. It was even darker than outside, but slowly, he got his bearings.

_An old desk and some scrap paper on a shelf. Good._

John went to the door to listen for voices, but there was nothing. Carefully, he peeked outside into what appeared to be an empty hallway and he inched through it in complete darkness until he bumped into a metal door.

Opening it a crack made him poise in alarm. _Voices! And light!_ A glance at the other side revealed that the voices were coming out of a room to the right, with at least three men conversing loudly over some issue John couldn’t entirely understand. The snippets that reached him suggested they were playing cards.

 _They’re distracted,_ he decided, and went through the door between the sections of the hallway. His heart galloping, he sneaked towards the origin of the voices and he risked a glimpse into the small room.

 _Five! Oh shit!_ John cursed inwardly. They were indeed sitting at a table, holding cards, and he was sure he had seen Smith, too, although he was half-hidden by some other bloke. But five of them? There was no way to take them on alone! The only good news was that Sherlock had to be somewhere near as the men were surely supposed to watch him.

Loud laughter erupted and John dared to have another look. Then, without giving it a second thought, he darted past the doorway, convinced that the men were caught up in the moment. Breathlessly waiting for some kind of reaction, John stood pressed against the wall.

Nothing. They hadn’t seen him.

A few steps down the hallway, John saw the first door which might open towards the main part of the building. Listening for the voices again, he crossed the corridor and slipped through the exit – right into a large hall. Alarmed, he ran for one of the big wooden boxes that were stacked near the walls. He surveyed his surroundings: there was a sliding door and next to it, cars and a van stood parked – yet not the vehicles John knew from Smithfield Market.

 _They must have disposed of them somewhere,_ he thought to himself. Behind a metal container in the middle of the hall, John could see one half of a partition screen and he decided to leave his cover and sneak closer to get a look. Not making any sound, he approached the screen, but behind it, there was just another one, leading him through some kind of makeshift maze until he suddenly found his way blocked by a large machine.

John listened. No human action, just some indistinct whirring and droning – most likely more machines. He took a bold step forwards, his gun ready, but he nearly dropped it when he saw what was lying in the middle of the space opening up in front of him.

 _“Sherlock!”_ he whispered, and without looking around, he ran to the motionless dragon. Frantically, he pulled at the chains tying the forelegs and hind feet to the floor, but quickly gave up and instead ripped out the tubes that were attached to the snout.

“Sherlock, wake up!” John hissed. The dragon inhaled, yet his eyes stayed shut. 

“I would stop that if I were you,” John heard someone say, and he wheeled around, his gun raised. The voice had come from behind one of the screens and he couldn’t exactly tell from which direction, so shooting wouldn’t do any good. It would become necessary soon, though, because shouting and running announced the guards.

“Sherlock, you have to wake up now!” John implored. He rubbed the scaly forehead with his free hand, hoping for a reaction.

“You! Move away from it!” someone commanded and simultaneously, two of the screens came crashing down to the floor. With five machine pistols pointing at him, John saw his only option in biding his time. Dutifully, he raised his hands.

“No problem,” he said as calmly as he could. “See, I’m putting down my gun.” He placed it on the floor. “Now we can...”

“Stow it!” one of the men – not Smith – barked. “Walk over here, but slowly!”

John straightened and took a step away from Sherlock, but he was surprised to see that the moment he advanced, the men retreated.

“You idiot! You woke it!”

 _Smith_ , John thought and the panic in the man’s voice was music to John’s ears. But his satisfaction didn’t last long because the men suddenly assumed a formation and John’s military instincts kicked into gear. He barely managed to jump to the side before they started to fire.

“Aim for the chest!” shouted someone.

Crouching behind the large machine, John tried to keep Sherlock in his field of vision. He saw him struggling against the chains while getting hit and John desperately wished for his gun so that he could distract the men from their target.

Sherlock opened his wings, perhaps in an attempt to put more strain on the chains, but before John could process the fact that from his perspective, it looked as if there was a hole in one of the wings, an ear-piercing scream deafened him. Covering his ears, he shrunk back and in the corner of his eye, he saw one of the weapons the men had carried being dropped on the floor. Before he could reach out for it though, light flared up and then his breath caught.

 _Oh fuck!_ John recoiled completely behind the machine. The air felt as if there was no oxygen left in it and instead, it had turned into a blazing hot storm that wanted to scorch off his skin. Loud explosions rocked the warehouse while the other partition screens caught fire, and John kicked the one behind him over to avoid getting toasted once it started to burn as well.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, but the firestorm didn’t stop, it just abated a little and instead, more shots were fired. They were coming from all directions now and going by the beams of light flitting through the hall, John supposed police backup had finally arrived. It was hard to tell though, caught in the crossfire as he was.

Something exploded nearby but then the shots became more distanced. John peeked around the machine and squinted his eyes at Sherlock, who was still immersed in flames.

“Sherlock, the police are here! You can stop that now!” John shouted and the fire died down. With one wing beat, Sherlock lifted off.

 _He melted the chains!_ John thought, flabbergasted. Molten metal was dripping off his feet, yet he appeared to be unhurt -- apart from the wing that is.

_As if someone tried to hash it into small pieces._

“You there, freeze!”

John flinched. He peeked over his shoulder and was relieved to meet a policeman in riot gear.

“It’s okay, officer, I’m–” John started.

“I said freeze!” the man shouted. “And put your hands where I can see them!”

Obeying the command, John raised his hands but his reaction didn’t seem to satisfy the man. He dragged John away from the machine and pushed him on the ground, tattooing the uneven concrete into John’s cheek.

“Where are–?” The man started, but suddenly the weight on John’s body was gone, followed by a scream. _Oh shit!_ John thought and staggered to his feet.

“Sherlock! No!” he exclaimed. The dragon, who was just about to swoop down on the man he had hurled several yards away, veered off, aiming at John instead. “I’m fine, there’s … _whoa_!”

The air was knocked out of his lungs when Sherlock crashed into him, simultaneously clutching him to his body. John’s feet lost contact with the ground and before he could protest, a deafening bang followed by cold wind effectively shut him up. Sherlock had shot through one of the transom windows and was now gaining height.

“Sherlock, damn it!”

The houses became smaller and smaller and every inch of his body that was not covered felt like it was becoming ice. His eyes watered in the nasty draught and for a brief moment, John considered ordering Sherlock to land, but closing his eyes solved the problem and immediately focused him on what was really important.

 _Dropping to my death somewhere in Greater London is worth it,_ he thought, revelling in the closeness he had missed so desperately. Under the scales, strength worked unceasingly to hold him fast and continue the flight, and only when the wind swirled less in his ears, John turned his head to get a glimpse of the city. It was possible that they were approaching Baker Street although everything looked incredibly different from above.

Sherlock manoeuvred into an upright position before they lost altitude quickly. The legs let go -- early enough to cushion the landing -- and then John was released completely. He shuddered with cold.

“Unbelievable that I’ve never been in the court behind the house,” he said, his teeth chattering. Sherlock inclined his head. “Right, sorry,” John apologised. He fished in his pocket with stiff fingers. “I’ll try the key.”

Inside the house, everything was quiet and to John’s relief, they made it into the flat without waking Mrs Hudson.

“Now we’re even,” John sighed and leaned on the wall. “I declare this kidnapping business officially over.” His strength left him while his eyes were dropping shut. “Let me just...” _Slide down and fall asleep._ But something was more urgent...

John searched his memory and finally found it. “God, sorry.” He straightened. “Show me your wing.”

The questioning look he received in return didn’t bode well, John decided. He stepped forwards and carefully pulled at the wing until it had opened enough, but before he could touch the frazzled skin, the wing was snatched from his hand.

“I just want to–” John said when Sherlock stumbled backwards, staring at the hand-sized hole in horror. _Oh fuck, he didn’t know!_ John thought. “It’s just small! And you can still fly!” he tried to comfort Sherlock who came to a standstill when he collided with the sofa.

The dragon didn’t calm down but started to shake his wing as if he wanted to get rid of a foreign body. Snarling at it although his eyes showed utter panic, he first didn’t tolerate John’s attempt to come nearer. Finally, when John overcame his apprehension and grasped the wing’s bone, Sherlock stopped thrashing around.

“It’s all right,” John said and knelt down. The moment he put his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him closer, the tension seeped from the large body and also the furious growl became quieter. “You’re here. You’re with me,” John whispered, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

He closed his eyes and his entire system attuned to the purr that commenced.

“Won’t let them get …” _you_ , he finished inwardly, however his voice ceased to cooperate, just like his mind. Drugged with fatigue, John felt his cheek slide along the scales until his head met some sort of hard pillow, but he didn’t care what it was, as long as he didn’t lose the contact with the vibrating frame of energy that was filling the terrible void of the previous day. And in contrast to the flight, now everything was warm and safe, compelling John to give in to sleep at last.

 

***

 

 _Stab… shoulder!_ John woke with a start, the memory of Afghanistan suddenly so fresh that he was completely disoriented at first.

“Oh fuck,” he cursed. The pain abated once he turned on his back and the moment of panic was gone too, overwhelmed by the comforting feeling of being enclosed by a wing.

 _I should’ve taken off my shoes and jacket,_ John mused, but it was just a passing thought.  He rolled over again, pain in his shoulder be damned! Just the contact counted -- however unsatisfactory through layers of clothes. Or how much a tell-tale stirring in his trousers disturbed any kind of tranquillity.

“I’d better get up,” John groaned. He tore himself away and pulled himself up by the sofa. Clumsily, he shook out of his jacket.

“I’ll just make a short detour to the bathroom,” he said and stepped out of his shoes, yet even when he was looking at the unshaven state of his face, he didn’t feel fully awake.

 _Apart from you,_ he cursed his dick. Taking his mind off a path he was not going to pursue after the previous night’s ordeal, John took to making himself presentable again and then went straight to the kitchen to heat the pan. As expected, the dragon showed up the second the first piece of meat started sizzling in the oil.

“I should’ve frozen some of this,” John said and stopped himself from closing the fridge’s door. “Wonder how long pre-packed meat lasts.” There was no date on the plastic and John stuffed as much as he could into the two small drawers of the freezer. It couldn’t hurt to cool it a bit more.

He sat down at the table and whilst Sherlock devoured the meat, John debated with himself if he should ask about the wing again. In the end he decided against it because the topic didn’t seem fitting for their first direct conversation after the night’s events. He was still searching for a way to break the ice when he felt something sidle up his spine.

“Keep that tail of yours in check, you hear me?” he said good-naturedly. “I’m not going to make the same mistake like the last time.”

A frown answered him.

“We don’t alternate between getting shot at and, well... sex,” John said. The tail didn’t stop though, it just changed its motions to a rather erratic pattern. John was convinced that if he put more emphasis on his rebuff, the tail would vanish, but on the other hand, the contact took away some of the need he had already woken up with.

 _Not now!_ he reminded himself, and reluctantly, he got up to put away the dishes. “Do you want to–” he began but then gave a start. Claws touched down on the counter, leaving visible traces when Sherlock blocked John’s way to both sides.

“So it’s okay if you decide it is?” John asked and grinned. He felt the dragon’s presence less than an inch away and a growl sent vibrations down his nape. Closing his eyes, John imagined the smooth scales on his skin. “I guess you won’t let me shower first?” he asked. The answer was a tongue sliding down the back of his ear, driving home Sherlock’s opinion of the matter. “But not here,” John rasped, and one claw disappeared, clearing his way.

 _So much for taking things slow,_ John reprimanded himself. He didn’t dare to look at Sherlock when he set off for the bedroom, embarrassed that his weakness showed too much. _He smells it anyway. Who am I kidding?_

Struggling out of his jumper and T-shirt, John managed to toss aside the guilty conscience and embrace his persistent desire. He let himself be knocked over by the dragon storming into the room, and no matter how urgently Sherlock rubbed along him, John somehow managed to get his trousers open.

“Let me... touch you,” he panted. With both hands, he grabbed the tip of the dragon’s penis, aligning it with his own to give both a squeeze that took his breath away. But the pressure bordering pain was a small price to pay for the jolts he sent through the dragon’s body looming over him. _Mine again,_ flashed through John’s mind, triggering such a powerful response in his system that lust peaked dramatically, snatching away his control.

“I’m… I…” he stuttered before speech eluded him as well, and the heat of the erection he was rubbing along seemed to spread to his whole body, inflaming each cell until everything turned to white hot pleasure when he came. Peripherally he noticed the roar and the hot liquid mingling with his own, adding even more facets to the overload of sensations swamping his brain. Only when the seemingly endless pumping of his cock stopped, John regained his right mind – at least to a degree.

“Hell, I just wish the effect would last a bit longer,” he puffed. “Not just, I don’t know, a minute and a half.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, feigning danger while he inhaled down John’s chest. “And damn, what I wouldn’t give for your stamina,” John sighed. Arousal tricked his brain into compliance, even when his body didn’t respond properly, and with bated breath John waited for the teasing of the forked tongue. Slowly, it was tickling a path down his stomach, aiming exactly where he needed it... before it stopped abruptly.

“What is…?” Then John heard it. There was a knock, and another – a rhythm, it seemed, regular, unceasing -- and it conveyed convincingly that it would not stop before someone answered the door.

“If that’s your brother, I’m going to kill him,” John groaned. _And if it’s really Mycroft, I shouldn’t face him in yesterday’s dirty clothes!_

As fast as he could, John ran upstairs and changed into something presentable. That the annoying guest was in fact Mycroft was easy to determine even before the door was opened because Sherlock had retreated into a corner of the living room and was snarling at the entrance.

Trying to quell his immediate aversion bubbling up in the poisoned atmosphere, John breathed in. Without much success, he forced a neutral expression on his face before he pressed the handle.

“Mycroft.”

“John,” was the curt answer and the tall man stepped towards his brother who started growling threateningly. “Sherlock.”

John cleared his throat, directing Mycroft’s attention to him again. “Let’s get to the point, shall we?” John asked impatiently. “You want something. That means you tell us and we decide if we want to deliver.”

He clearly couldn’t decide if he should be amused or irritated, so John saw Mycroft settle for something in between, enraging John even more.

“Now, first of all let _me_ deliver something,” Mycroft declared and reached into his coat’s pocket. He pulled out a pistol that John immediately identified as his own. “I take it that you lost sight of this here?”

John took the weapon and checked if it was secured. “Thanks,” he said, placing it on the table.

“So after this token of my appreciation, would you please explain your version of last night’s events to me?” Mycroft asked.

“As you might have guessed, those people first wanted to get to Sherlock through me,” John said.  “When this didn’t work out, they managed to catch him in an unguarded moment. I always suspected we were being followed.” John glowered at the taller man. “But I thought it was you.” When he received no answer, John cleared his throat. “They sedated him. God knows how. And for what.”

This activated Mycroft at last. He exhibited his typical, barely discernible version of reluctance and then prepared to speak. “I assumed they were a myth,” he said quietly. “No one gave anything on what was rumoured about them.”

“What? Who?” John asked, exasperated.

“In the past they called themselves the Temporal Tribunal,” Mycroft explained. “They emerged from a secret cult that had its roots in rogue members of the Inquisition.”

“The _what_?” John burst out. Pulling himself together, he shook his head and inhaled. “Okay, never mind. _Inquisition_ , right. So what do they want?”

“From what I’ve gathered in the last hours, they want to form a new species. If this involves dragons, we can safely assume that their final goal is unlimited power,” Mycroft declared as if all of this was plainly obvious.

“So it’s not the Vatican that’s controlling them?” John asked.

“No, those people have been pursuing their own goals from the very beginning,” said Mycroft. “They were of the opinion that the actual Inquisition should better _harvest_ the powers it fought.”

“The Inquisition wasn’t after dragons, though,” John interjected. “At least they didn’t uncover a single one during their witch hunt.”

“The rogue group was more focused,” said Mycroft and John pricked up his ears.

“I thought you didn’t know anything about them,” he asked, suspicious.

“Unfortunately they disappeared from sources in the nineteenth century, and even before that time proof of their existence is more than sketchy,” Mycroft explained. “But in Smith’s flat we found a symbol which is connected to them.”

He took out his mobile and showed John a picture of a coat of arms with numerous snakes and lizards intertwined, the sun forming a formidable background.

John shrugged. “I’ve never seen that thing. And honestly, I’m pretty sure you’ve got better resources than me. By the way, what about the other guy?”

Mycroft appeared to be bewildered for a moment. “Who are you referring to?”

“The one I heard talking when I tried to free Sherlock from his chains. Snide voice, somewhat nasal. I didn’t see him, though,” answered John.

“Three of the gunmen were apprehended,” said Mycroft. “And I’m afraid no person was among them who could have conducted the experiments.”

John felt the subtle anger that had been simmering for the whole conversation surface again. “You bloody beginners!” he scoffed. “Arresting _me_ instead of the bad guy.” He huffed out a bitter laugh. “I surely would’ve got hit by friendly fire if Sherlock hadn’t flown me out.” John turned towards the dark figure huddled in the corner. “And what about the wing. Will it heal again?”

“Are you telling me that Sherlock was injured?” John heard. _Big brother can do emotions too, what a surprise,_ he thought to himself. The voice had sounded earnestly worried.

“They managed to cut a piece out of his wing,” said John. Mycroft brushed past him but stopped immediately when Sherlock displayed his teeth to keep him away.

“But this is impossible!” Mycroft exclaimed. He nervously fiddled with his mobile. “What if they managed to conserve it? Find out about its properties without it disintegrating the moment it is separated from the body?” he muttered.

“You know what?” John hissed. “If that’s your only concern, you’d better leave.”

Still in thought, Mycroft turned to go, but the moment he faced the door, John winced inwardly. _The engravings. I completely forgot about them!_ He felt Mycroft’s critical eyes on him right away.

“He communicated with you?”

“Yes.” John went to the door and opened it wide. His hopes that the elder brother would let the matter rest were dashed though.

“What did he want to convey by this?” Mycroft asked.

“Not your bloody concern,” John growled. _Don’t you dare meddle in this!_ he begged inwardly, feeling his whole body tense in anticipation.

“We’ve got specialists who…” Mycroft started and John’s already fragile restraint disintegrated in a fraction of a second.

“He won’t go anywhere!” he snarled, meeting Mycroft’s gaze in a silent battle of wills. The man didn’t seem deterred though, just mildly intrigued.

“Surely a reason why he chose you,” Mycroft said. “Your courage.” He walked towards the threshold, but stopped there. “And your trust.”

“Not the worst characteristics, are they? But how would _you_ know?” John challenged him.

“Trust kills you eventually,” said Mycroft. _A statement. Not a theory,_ John reckoned. As he was still the target of Mycroft’s penetrating clear eyes, John felt like a test object ready for dissection. “And what would you say if I told you that it is not for _you_ to decide where Sherlock goes,” Mycroft continued, “as _I’m_ his family?”

 _That bloody smile!_ “You had ten years to accomplish something!” John shouted. “You’re out of the picture now!”

The look studying him turned knowing.

“Very possessive,” Mycroft stated. He stepped nearer and suddenly, his hand shot out to grab John’s collar. The growling in the background became louder. “Mm, that’s not it,” Mycroft mumbled when John clutched the arm to free himself.

“What?” he snapped.

“He wouldn’t have let me do this if he had claimed you,” Mycroft declared calmly, smiling that thin, enigmatic smile again.

“You’re quite sure about that, aren’t you?” John retorted. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. _Finally something caught him off guard_. “Well, then. Have a good day,” John said, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Have you…?” Mycroft began and then visibly swallowed. “You’re not aware of the implications of–”

“I said _get out_!” John grunted, cutting him short. He demonstratively eyed his gun and Mycroft took the clue at last, vanishing without a word of goodbye.

John slammed the door shut. “Fuck you!” he hissed. God, why could this man rile him up like that?

“It’s all your bloody fault!” John barked at the now silent dragon. “But I’m sick and tired of the insecurity and the speculation, you hear me?” he snapped, his rage spurring him on. Peripherally he noticed that his fingers started to unbutton his shirt without having received a conscious order. “We need to do this. _You_ need to do this!”

The motionless creature let only his eyes speak to communicate the complete incredulity on his mind.

“Even your brother thought we went down that road, damn it!” John ranted and then calmed himself down with some difficulty. “Look,” he said. “With one thing he was right: I _do_ trust you. And you wouldn’t do anything that hurts me.”

He shrugged out of his shirt and marched towards the bedroom. However, in the hallway his advance was stopped, first by a wing and then by the front legs that had earlier cornered him in the kitchen. John whipped around and was instantly caught up by a mixture of anger and arousal by what he saw.

“The teeth?” he shouted. “Seriously? Knock it off, will you?” Meeting the dragon’s furious glare with even more fierceness, John nevertheless exhaled and reined in his temper. “You know that something’s missing. It’s driving us both up the wall.”

He paused, hoping that Sherlock would show some kind of reaction. “I want it,” he declared with conviction, but he didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know exactly which two letters Sherlock was carving into the wall.

NO

Instantly furious again, John pushed away the leg that was blocking his way, yet before he could take another step towards the living room, he was yanked backwards.

“Wha–” he began, but was caught unawares by his back’s painful collision with the wall. “I…” he gasped and then soft lips silenced him for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heartfelt thanks to my beta sockeyhoccer :)


	14. Chapter 14

John’s blood ran cold. The unfamiliar lips pressed on his mouth produced a strange chill, but as quickly as it had begun, the moment was over and the hand on his arm let go as well. John watched the man stagger backwards until he crashed into the bathroom door.  

Unable to move, John tried to piece together reality. Somehow his mind supplied the correct information of what he _saw_ , yet it didn’t actively _process_ more than the stricken face and the quickly heaving chest.

 _He’s hyperventilating,_ the doctor in him managed to get through at last.

“Don’t… don’t panic,” John said automatically. _His name! You have to address him!_ “This has happened before and…. it’s okay, you see?”

The name still didn’t want to pass John’s lips, but his words had the desired effect, he realised when the eyes stopped flitting around and the breathing slowed down.

“Everything’s all right,” John appeased him, quenching his own inner upheaval. _Nothing’s all right_! his mind rectified. _I was just kissed by a complete stranger!_

He suppressed the urge to let his eyes stray, because there was no doubt that this was a _naked_ stranger above all.

“Wait here, I’m just...” John stuttered. “I’ll be back in a second.”

He picked up his own shirt and threw it on, and then ran to the living room to grab his jumper. When he handed it to the tall man – _Sherlock!_ John added inwardly – he first didn’t seem to know what to do with it before he finally pulled it over his head.

John huffed out a laugh. “Okay, that’s… I’m sorry this looks ridiculous. You don’t have anything to wear, do you? In an unpacked box maybe?”

The strong eyebrows knitted to a frown and Sherlock shook his head. “N…o,” he whispered. Coughing slightly while he tried to get control of his vocal cords again, Sherlock exuded such helplessness that John was immediately reminded of the first day he had met him.

 _Met the dragon,_ his mind corrected him.

“Come, we’ll see if something in my wardrobe fits you,” John suggested. He inhaled, pulling himself together. There was a man who needed his help, however surreal the circumstances. _Concentrate!_ he spurred himself on when he walked upstairs, feeling a vague notion of déjà vu.

In his bedroom, John went straight to the chest of drawers and threw Sherlock some boxers and socks. Critically, he then scanned the content of his wardrobe before he dug into the heap of jeans, pulling out an old model.

“Here. They’re a rather slim fit.” Yet slim and tall didn’t necessary mean skinny, John reckoned when he saw Sherlock struggling with the tight trousers. “Sorry, oh my God, stop! They’re too small!”

Relieved, Sherlock peeled out of the denim.

“You’re quite… muscular,” John said and handed him one of his usual jeans. “Does that jumper look as hideous on me as well? Do you want a shirt instead?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Cold,” he said hoarsely.

“Oh, right. What about a T-shirt?”

John pointed to one of the upper shelves and Sherlock took off the jumper. He turned towards the wardrobe to take out a T-shirt.

“Wait!” John exclaimed and Sherlock froze. “Is that…?”

John’s hand reached out and when he touched the shoulder blade, reality became a lot more palpable all of a sudden. On a patch as big as the palm of his hand there was no skin and just a thin membrane that covered Sherlock’s muscle.

“Is that because of the hole in the wing?” John asked. Sherlock stood completely still. “It’s not going to heal, is it?”

Sherlock shook his head to underline the assessment, but he didn’t move – as if he was waiting for something. Snatching his hand away, John backtracked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the pale skin though. Apart from the injury, its unblemished look gave such a strangely innocent impression. It was almost… fragile.

The T-shirt put an end to the display that John’s subconscious rejected as plainly wrong, and he completely snapped out of his abstraction when the gangly man had finished donning the too small attire. Involuntarily, a smile forged ahead, but Sherlock didn’t meet John’s gaze. Instead he just stared at his own hands disbelievingly, turning them from side to side before he stormed out of the room and ran downstairs.

Alarmed, John followed him. He found him in the bathroom at last, looking at himself in the mirror and poking his cheeks and the skin around his eyes. Sherlock was obviously appalled by what he saw.

“I’m old,” he croaked and John laughed out loud.

“You’re five years younger than me,” he reminded him. “Stop whining, will you?”

Sherlock compressed his lips and rubbed his chin, producing a faint noise.

“You need a shave?” John asked. He grabbed an aerosol dispenser and his razor. “Here. Suit yourself.”

Sherlock tentatively pressed the button and his eyes widened in surprise at what came out of the dispenser.

“It’s gel, you just... rub it in your hands,” John explained. “And I’m pretty sure they had this ten years ago.”

The pinched lips again. But then Sherlock foamed up the gel and covered his face with it, and everything looked exactly as the procedure demanded it – until Sherlock started to draw the razor over his face and it became clear that his fine motor skills had suffered during his time as a dragon.

 _Good thing he can’t kill himself,_ John thought jokingly but then reconsidered the enormity of this statement. _He really can’t, can he?_

Sherlock splashed his face with water and dried it off afterwards.

“Better.”

The word had sounded more like a normal voice at last. A rather deep voice, John mused. A good voice actually.

“So, do you need anything else?” he asked Sherlock and immediately the eyes’ reflection in the mirror focused on him, holding his gaze unflinchingly.

 _A speck of green!_ John realised, but as quickly as the flash of recognition had put his whole system in a flurry it was reset to zero again. That searching, scrutinising look was someone else’s. _Mycroft’s_.

The mere inches between them were turning into what felt like yards, and to John’s relief, a beep sounded from the living room.

“I... that was my mobile,” he explained and escaped. Yet when he checked the messages, he already felt Sherlock breathing down his neck.

“I need one of those as soon as possible,” Sherlock declared and John tried to remember what kind of mobile phone he had had ten years ago. None at all.

“Tea?” he asked Sherlock. It was a convenient excuse to abscond again, this time to the kitchen, and John filled the kettle to give himself something to do.

“Tea would be good, yes,” Sherlock answered.

“With…?” John enquired.

“Or coffee.”

John switched on the water kettle. “Okay. So which is it?”

“Both,” was the answer and then the sound of the telly filled the rooms. John peeked out of the kitchen and saw Sherlock plunking into one of the armchairs.

“I hope the instant coffee I keep for guests is okay?” No answer. “Sugar, milk?” John continued.

“Three sugars,” Sherlock said, but before John could comment the reply, Sherlock almost jumped out of the chair. “What?” he exclaimed. “Facebook? Why should anyone buy shares of a photo album?” he ranted at the screen.

John shook his head. _Let him acclimate to the changed world,_ he thought to himself. In comparison to the dragon, this man was so alert. In his other form, he had barely paid attention to the news, just the crime stories had roused him. _He needs time,_ John reminded himself.

When John handed him the coffee, Sherlock briefly interrupted his incessant channel-hopping, only to take it up with renewed vigour after taking a sip.

“Boring… boring…” he assessed each time the programme had lasted for more than five seconds. John leaned in the doorway to the kitchen while the tea brewed and tried to do a bit of acclimating himself.

 _Handsome. Yes, one could say that,_ he thought. The wild curls, the attentive eyes, and the slender frame – even the shapeless jumper and the too short jeans couldn’t hide his attractiveness.

 _Did I imagine him that way?_ John wondered _. Hell, no. I never imagined what he would look like in his other form. Even when I pictured him with all the people who knew him from the time when he was a human._ He had been a shadow of sorts, an indistinct echo from the past that couldn’t take shape.

John fetched the mug with the tea and Sherlock downed the coffee before he accepted it. Their fingers brushed lightly and John waited for a physical reaction, an electric spark or magnetic pull – _something!_

There was nothing, though. No drive to touch, no indistinct yearning for more. All that remained was an empty feeling that stunned John into complete impassiveness as the day wore on. Lost and bewildered, he settled on the sofa and watched the programmes that managed to catch Sherlock’s attention. Only occasionally, he got up to make more tea and coffee, but in spite of the stimulating beverages, he started nodding off occasionally when it was becoming dark.

“So the Prime Minister says this?” Sherlock shouted, startling John from his nap. “Who is that even?”

The telly was switched off and John blinked into the darkness. He saw a shadow rising and soon afterwards, the light in the kitchen went on.

“You’re hungry?” John asked when he heard the fridge door. He rubbed his eyes and scuffled into the kitchen as well. “We could cook.”

“Or you can order takeaway,” Sherlock answered and sat down at the table.

“And what kind of food?” John asked. In return, he received a look that was awfully familiar once more. How could two completely different brothers resemble each other so strikingly at times? John wondered. Going by the look, it was obvious what they would eat for dinner.

“Weren’t you going to order Indian?” Sherlock asked and John nodded. “Mixed vegetable Chaat?” John nodded again and Sherlock crossed his arms on his chest. He leaned back. “Well, then all that remains is calling the restaurant, isn’t it?”

John thought of retorting but the moment Sherlock had finished his rhetorical question, he appeared to slip into some sort of lucid dreaming. _All that remains is calling the restaurant,_ John growled inwardly and went to the living room to fetch his mobile and search for a takeaway in the vicinity.  

When John hung up the phone, Sherlock was still miles away and even after the food had arrived and they had started eating, he didn’t become more mentally present. Patiently, John waited for some sort of reaction.

“I want you to give me a minute account of what you remember about the warehouse,” Sherlock said suddenly and John’s sluggish brain was unable to connect the tranquil dinner and the previous night’s events at first.

“What do you mean?” he asked eventually. “How the building looked or what?”

“No, not the building. The laboratory they kept me in,” Sherlock clarified impatiently. “What kind of equipment did they have? Were there experiments under way? Were there chemicals?”

John wracked his brain. “Yes, I suppose there were chemicals. I didn’t see any labels, but there were large plastic containers and small bottles.”

“Which colour did they have? Did you see liquids or powder?” Sherlock insisted.

“I don’t know, I–” John began. Sherlock stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“What about the machines? Did you recognize them?”

“Erm, they had a centrifuge,” John answered, glad that he recalled at least one aspect. “The rest… well, I don’t know.”

“And how did they sedate me?” Sherlock continued, his patience clearly running out.

“It was a gas,” John hastened to say and Sherlock inclined his head, waiting for more.

“Did it have a characteristic smell? In what kind of container was it stored?” he asked while John was frantically searching his memory.

“I don’t know!” John blurted out. “I was in a hurry, okay?”

Sherlock wiped the disappointed look from his face just as quickly as his brother would have managed to, but the fact that it had been there in the first place left John with the same feeling of inadequateness that Mycroft produced in him with such ease.

“Never mind, I didn’t expect much more,” Sherlock muttered when he got up, abandoning his half-eaten food. 

Humiliation crawled through John’s system, turning into righteous indignation trickling down his veins.

“What the heck does that mean?” he sputtered but Sherlock ignored him and opened the door to the stairs.

“I need to do some experiments,” he said before he leaned into the staircase. “Mrs Hudson?” he shouted.

John buried his nose in his hands and inhaled. And waited.

“What… what… no, it can’t be!” he heard Mrs Hudson’s faint voice from downstairs. Mentally counting backwards, John anticipated the scene he knew would unfold. “Sherlock!” More steps, this time quicker, until finally Mrs Hudson crossed the threshold and flung her arms around Sherlock’s neck as much as it was possible for her.

“Oh Sherlock!” she squealed. “It’s so good to hear you speak again. Isn’t that exciting, John?” she asked and stepped back. John lowered his hands.

 _I don’t know,_ his mind replied before he bit back the words with some effort. “Erm, yes. Yes, of course,” he hastened to say, but Sherlock’s eyes had already narrowed imperceptibly. The moment of hesitation hadn’t gone unnoticed.

 _Bollocks!_ John cursed inwardly when Sherlock turned to Mrs Hudson again.

“Where is the rest of my things?” he asked.

“Oh, you mean your clothes and such?” Mrs Hudson asked, giving Sherlock a quick once-over.

“I mean my equipment first of all. But clothes are also necessary, yes,” Sherlock answered.

“It’s somewhere in storage,” Mrs Hudson said and started to descend the stairs. “I think I wrote the address in my notebook. Yes, yes, I’m sure I have it,” she muttered. Sherlock followed her in his socks.

After waiting for a while, John went to the door to close it but then left it ajar instead. He cleared the table before he went to have a shower, yet when he left the bathroom, the flat was as silent as before. The beam of the staircase light was shining through the crack of the door, so Sherlock had not returned.

 _I’d better go to bed then,_ John thought and took a step, stopping dead in his tracks before advancing any further.

 _Wrong direction!_ he reminded himself. No matter how odd it felt to climb the stairs to his own room or to lie down in the bed he had barely slept in recently, somehow it was clear that he wouldn’t share a bed with Sherlock any more. Imagining the stranger with the forbidding eyes scrutinising him in the same way that he had less than an hour ago was already hard to endure, but lying in one bed with him? The prospect of a lonely night was a lot more appealing in this case.

 

****

 

In the morning, John woke with a start and he briefly didn’t know where he was. The feeling he last remembered before falling asleep was still there, though, just multiplied by the complete disorientation that gripped him.

 _Still alone,_ he stated inwardly. _And still in my bed._

So the previous night hadn’t been a dream. Dejectedly, he sat up and checked his alarm clock. 11 am – which meant that Sherlock would be up, doing... whatever he did in the mornings. Perhaps the time with Mrs Hudson had helped him find his way back to his human life?

John dressed while simultaneously plucking up his courage to go downstairs. Whatever had changed, he was still living with this man, so he couldn’t tiptoe around or even start avoiding him.

 _Yesterday was due to the shock,_ John thought to himself. _He’s not his brother and he’ll surely alter his behaviour given time._ Mycroft himself had said that they weren’t much alike, hadn’t he? He had phrased it slightly different, though, but John couldn’t recall the exact words.

He marched downstairs and was relieved to find Sherlock reading a newspaper. It was strangely comforting to see him in that hideous jumper again.

“Morning,” John said and Sherlock flinched. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t want to startle you.” _Didn’t think that was possible,_ John added inwardly.

“I haven’t got used to the reduced sensitivity of my senses,” Sherlock explained, hiding behind the newspaper. “It’s like being deaf and blind and possessing no sense of smell whatsoever. A very irritating experience.”

John boiled the kettle, but even the steaming mug didn’t coax Sherlock from behind the paper wall he had established.

“So, Mrs Hudson brought you her newspaper?” John asked. No answer. “We could subscribe to one.”

The last remark caused a lowering of the paper shield. “For a start,” Sherlock remarked.

“Just tell me which,” John said. He fetched his laptop and opened The Telegraph’s website, an action that had Sherlock get up and lurk around behind him. “Is this one okay?”

“Yes, go on,” Sherlock demanded. John filled in the forms, fighting the awkwardness he felt at the eyes boring into his back. “Is there a reason why you’re using this particular browser?” Sherlock asked.

“What? No, it’s quite common, actually,” John answered and he could have sworn he heard Sherlock mentally file away the information in this head of his that always seemed to have something to do. Even more so when Sherlock wasn’t saying anything – just like now as he unfolded the newspaper again and immersed himself in the articles.

John had breakfast alone after Sherlock declined his offer of toast with a shake of his head. Generally, it was like before his transformation, John thought to himself. No one talked, there was just amicable silence and time flew by regardless.

Only that nothing felt ‘amicable’ and time didn’t fly at all. It dragged along like in a dentist’s waiting room and John hoped that Mycroft wouldn’t show up because this would surely be the last straw. John was convinced that the feeling of being superfluous would peak the moment the elder Holmes entered the flat.

When at noon the bell rung, John expected the worst, but it was just a delivery. Sherlock directed two boxes into his bedroom, the remaining three were stacked in the living room. They sported large ‘Handle with care’ stickers and clanked noticeably when they were set down.

“Is that your, erm, equipment?” John asked. Sherlock nodded and disappeared into his bedroom.

 _Probably changing,_ John thought, and just as he had anticipated, Sherlock sported his own clothes when he returned. Suddenly, there was nothing familiar about him at all, not even the stupid jumper.

“Can I have this for a moment?” Sherlock asked while John was still trying to come to terms with the shirt and trousers that looked as if they were one size too small. _Or the best fit ever. Perhaps made-to-measure._

“Yes, yes,” John muttered and finally saw what Sherlock meant, but by then, his laptop had already been unlocked.

“How did you...?” John asked and Sherlock frowned at the display. _He doesn’t even deem it necessary to look at me!_ John thought.

“Oh, please,” was the answer he received when the browser loaded and Sherlock could spare a moment of his time. Then, for hours on end, the only instant he asked for John was when the battery ran low. John read, watched the telly, and made tea and sandwiches Sherlock didn’t eat. When dinner was approaching, John decided he should try direct communication again.

“Takeaway?” he asked. _It would be interesting to find out if Sherlock knows what’s on my menu this time,_ he thought to himself.

“I don’t need anything,” Sherlock said.

“What else do you want to eat?” John insisted.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” John repeated.

“You could make me tea,” Sherlock said and hammered some letters on the keyboard.

 _Make me tea, my arse!_ John cursed inwardly, but went to the kitchen to boil the kettle and, while he was at it, cook himself some pasta as well. He sat down at the table, yet he hadn’t taken more than two bites when Sherlock entered the kitchen, carrying one of the boxes from the living room.

Beakers, Bunsen burners, culture dishes, phials in every shape, and various other items John remembered from the labs at Barts were spread on the table.

“Is this really necessary now?” John asked.

“What do you mean?”

 _You really don’t know, do you?_ John asked inwardly. As little attention as Sherlock was paying to him, he refrained from saying it out loud, though. Disgruntled, John continued eating amidst increasingly toxic fumes and he even did the washing-up to prove that he was adamant on following his routines.

For at least an hour, Sherlock was focused on his task, but John couldn’t say what exactly he was doing. That he used a lot of sulphur became clear by the smell, masking more subtle nuances. John watched the scene from the living room and he had an eye on one of the blankets in case something in the kitchen went up in flames. When Sherlock suddenly jumped up, John’s hand automatically shot out to grab the makeshift fire extinguisher.

“This doesn’t lead anywhere!” Sherlock ranted and switched off the Bunsen burner. “I need more information!”

He disappeared into his room and came back in a dark coat. _Did he put on a jacket as well?_ _Yes, he really did,_ John affirmed himself when he saw Sherlock searching his pockets.

John got up. “Can I help you with anything?”

“The card won’t be valid any more,” Sherlock said and before John could ask again, Sherlock pulled out a wallet. “Those are still in use, aren’t they?” he asked John and showed him some pound notes.

“Well, most of them are,” John answered.

“What does that mean?”

“If you’ve got a twenty with Edward Elgar, they won’t accept it,” John said.

Furiously, Sherlock pulled out a couple of notes and threw them on the kitchen table before he all but ran out of the flat, not even bothering to shut the door.

John first went to close it properly and then directed his steps to the bathroom.

 _Thank God, tomorrow the weekend’s over,_ he thought to himself. His eyes briefly rested on the jumper he had lent to Sherlock. It was lying on top of the other clothes in the washing basket and John pulled it out. Before he knew it, he gave it a sniff and was instantly overpowered by the earthy aroma he would recognise in a million. As if it was contaminated, he quickly tossed the jumper back into the basket.

 _How can he possibly smell the same!_ John clenched his teeth and schooled his reflection in the mirror into a more determined demeanour. _It doesn’t matter how Sherlock smells. The man is more different from the dragon than I ever imagined,_ John thought and when the realisation that had been lurking the whole day clad itself into words at last, he saw his features give in to sorrow for a second.

Sherlock had left. He had disappeared and there was someone else going by his name in the flat now. And all the connections that had been there before were irretrievably broken as well, leaving a void that John was sure would swallow him up the moment he got some rest and could come to his senses. So the only way out was to avoid such a situation at all costs.

“You’re going to work tomorrow,” John informed his reflection. _It’s only five hours, but hell, everything’s better than this here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugs to sockeyhoccer for the betaing :)


	15. Chapter 15

When 221B came in view, John stepped to the side to lean into a house front. At Barts, he had somehow managed to edit out what was waiting for him at home… _who’s waiting for me_ , he stressed inwardly.

Pretending to be interested in the shop windows, he continued his path so slowly that he sometimes thought he wasn’t advancing at all. Yet all of this didn’t prevent him from arriving in front of the black door eventually.

 _Just face it!_ he spurred himself on. Face _him!_

Even before he had opened the door to the flat, John heard voices inside. He identified Sherlock, but the second person spoke quietly and John hoped that it was not the silky voice he dreaded most at the moment.

 _Oh, fuck it!_ he swore inwardly when he crossed the threshold and the first thing he saw was a distinctive silhouette. _Of course it is Mycroft!_

“…called them and they will visit you in due time,” the elder brother said. He didn’t acknowledge John’s entry and continued to look at Sherlock in the same way his younger brother was looking at him. As they were sitting in opposite armchairs the reciprocal glowering had all aspects of a duel.

“How very considerate of you,” Sherlock scoffed. John took off his jacket and slipped out of his shoes, debating with himself if he should join the conversation that sounded rather inconspicuous albeit the undertone of the men’s voices carried no hint of small talk.

“Everyone was worried,” said Mycroft and Sherlock snorted.

“You mean _you_ were worried,” he spat with such venom that John barely recognised Sherlock’s voice.

“Naturally, dear brother,” was the reply. Sherlock leaned forwards, supporting his elbows on his knees.

“And no one had more reason to worry than you, isn’t that right? No one had more to lose. What if details had, uh, I don’t know… leaked out?”

“You wouldn’t betray your country!” Mycroft said, now clearly alarmed.

“Perhaps I wouldn’t. But what if I wanted to betray _you_?”

Mycroft grabbed the armrests and fought for his countenance. “There is no point in talking about this any more. This is the past, Sherlock.”

“Hah!” Sherlock exclaimed, jumping up. “You want to let the past rest although its ghosts recently revisited you? Since when have you become that naïve?”

John instinctively took a fighting stance when Mycroft got up as well.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft hissed.

“You very well know who was behind the abductions,” Sherlock replied in the exact same tone and John got the impression that the temperature in the room dropped considerably. “Then tell me, what did he do in the previous years?” Sherlock challenged his brother but he received no answer. “Develop chemical weapons?” Sherlock went on. “Biological?”

Something in the elder brother’s face must have given a thought away although John hadn’t seen the slightest movement.

“I knew it!” Sherlock started pacing the room. “Where is he now?”

“Inactive. And under surveillance,” was he curt answer.

“You fool!” Sherlock shouted and Mycroft took this as his call to leave. “What do you think you gain by this? By refusing to admit that he’s the one?” Sherlock called after him.

“Good evening, John,” Mycroft muttered in passing and then slammed the door shut.

“Wow, that struck a nerve,” John said. Sherlock was still following his path from the window to the fireplace and back. “Care to enlighten me?”

Purposefully, Sherlock aimed for the door and John suspected that he would leave as well, but he just pulled something out of his coat which was hanging on the rack. A display lit up – Sherlock had got a smartphone.

“No.” One word – and Sherlock didn’t even raise his head to say it. He marched to his bedroom, shutting the door with less vigour than his brother yet putting an end to communication just as effectively.

Annoyed by the brothers’ antics, John thought that the only reasonable idea was to ignore them and have an early dinner. He looked into the fridge and there was barely enough to last him through next day’s breakfast, so he ordered pizza. If Sherlock wanted something, he’d better leave his lair by himself.

 _I’m not going to ask him,_ John decided, but after the food had arrived, he caved in. That man had to live on something! _Bloody hell, he’s a dragon. He can’t starve his human form to death, can he?_

John was almost sure that this wasn’t the case, just as eating alone wasn’t an appealing prospect, so he knocked on Sherlock’s door.

“Do you want some...?”

“I don’t like artichokes on my pizza,” John heard through the door, but he refused to give up so quickly.

“Well, I suppose then you know there’s also ham on it, so we can swop toppings,” John said. “I peel off the ham from my slices. And you can bury me in artichokes if you like.”

The door was opened a crack.

“Bury you in artichokes?” A raised eyebrow preluded a questioning look and John shuffled his feet in embarrassment. He cleared his throat.

“Metaphorically, of course. However, there will be actual artichokes, so…” Trailing off, John tried to hold on to the thought that had made him start the sentence, but he couldn’t grasp it any more – not when Sherlock was staring at him so unabashedly. “Dinner?” was all he got out.

John took Sherlock’s shrug as a yes and went into the kitchen to start the sorting of the toppings. He sat down, grabbed a slice and waited, cursing his premature conclusion that his flatmate would show up.

Yet it hadn’t been overhasty, John reckoned when Sherlock sauntered into the kitchen. John couldn’t place the frown Sherlock gave the food, but a plate and suitable cutlery made it clear that for Sherlock, eating pizza with his fingers was too mundane after all.

“Like my work?” John asked after they both had taken a bite.

“To a degree,” Sherlock answered. “There’s still a lingering taste.”

“I hope you accept my apologies,” John said, keeping a straight face. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed but activated tiny laughter lines in the process. John couldn’t believe it: The lips had quirked a smile! He allowed the corners of his own mouth to twitch as well. “Enjoy.”

It seemed that Sherlock really liked the meal and in contrast to the occasions when they had recently spent time together, the atmosphere during this dinner resembled more the companionable silence of before the… transformation.

 _When he was still a dragon,_ flitted through John’s head and he carefully dismissed any other memories.

“Did you have breakfast?” he asked and Sherlock shook his head. “You must be starving!”

Sherlock put his knife and fork on the table and leaned back into his chair. “Possible, but I didn’t pay much attention to it. Eating would have slowed me down.” He pointed at his head.

“That’s…” John stopped. _Crazy?_ “…interesting.”

Sherlock inclined his head. “You could have said it. Most people do.”

Incredulously, John snorted and rubbed his temples. This man was quite a phenomenon. “I weighed my options but the latter fit better.” He dared to throw him a proper grin, but before Sherlock could react, the doorbell rang.

“Oh no.” Sherlock’s face fell. “That is not _in due time_.”

“What?” John asked but Sherlock hurried to the door and opened it before he established a safe distance to it again.

Speechless, John watched an elderly couple enter the flat and purposefully aiming for the tall man in the middle of the room, who, in turn, appeared to scan for possible escape routes.

“Sherlock!” the woman in the tweed coat called. “Oh my God, it’s really you!” She embraced him, more clinging to him than hugging him. The tall, white-haired man laid his arm on Sherlock’s shoulder and this was the moment something like panic flared up in Sherlock’s eyes.

He searched John’s gaze. _Parents?_ John mouthed and Sherlock nodded.

“My boy, I’m...” The voice of the elderly man broke.

“Let me look at you!” the woman – _Sherlock’s mother_ – said. She stepped back. “Oh Sherlock, what a fine man you’ve become.”

“Yes, I...” Sherlock straightened. “Let me introduce you to my... flatmate, Dr John Watson.”

“Yes, of course,” the father said. “Dr Watson! Mycroft told me so much about you.”

“He... did?” John asked and shook the hand that was extended to him.

“Why shouldn’t he?” the mother asked. “You brought Sherlock back, you–”

“Sorry to interrupt you, but I have to... run some errands,” Sherlock declared, using his parents’ momentary distraction. He threw on his coat. Before John could think of anything in reply, Sherlock had already disappeared.

“That’s... I don’t know,” John started. His frantic search for an explanation for Sherlock’s sudden departure was interrupted by quiet sobbing.

Mrs Holmes was immediately consoled by her husband and when John handed her a tissue, she looked at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, I’m just so…” She sniffed and then hid her face in the tissue.

“Now, now,” the father said, turning to John afterwards. “You took good care of him. We’re very thankful, you must know.”

John grasped what he thought might be a sensible idea with regard to Sherlock’s behaviour. “He’s not completely returned. I mean… he’ll need some time to adjust to acting like a human again.”

The father looked guilty before he continued. “You met Mycroft, didn’t you?”

“Yes…”

“Don’t get me wrong.” He sighed. “I know my children are very intelligent men. And we did our best to provide them with a loving home. But…”

“They’re different. In more than one way,” John finished and the father seemed relieved.

“Yes, they are. But with you, I’m convinced that Sherlock will be stable at last. He’s, erm, he’s never been in a relationship, so…”

John cleared his throat and the father backpedalled immediately. “Of course I didn’t want to imply… I’m sorry. Oh my, forget what I said.”

“No, no, it’s okay, I’m used to this,” John replied, deliberately eluding the topic. He dutifully let himself be embraced by Sherlock’s parents, bidding the unexpectedly kind couple goodbye, but when he shut the door, his control slipped.

 _Such an arse! Leaving me with his crying parents!_ John cursed. For the next half hour, he worked himself into such a rage that he broke off a mug’s handle. When finally Sherlock returned, though – a plastic bag clutched to his chest – John’s anger vanished in a heartbeat.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. _I can hold a grudge against the man even less than against the dragon! What’s wrong with me?_

Sherlock’s bewildered expression became one of mild irritation, reducing John’s initial alarm.

“I had an encounter with a strange contraption,” Sherlock said. “The so-called chip and pin machine.”

John snorted. “And here I was wondering who made an attempt on your life again.”

Sherlock’s eyes became haunted. “It wasn’t pleasant.” He shuddered at the memory. “I bought milk though.”

He handed John the bag and John peeked inside. Three cartons.

“That’s good, it’s… now we have milk.”

Slightly self-conscious, Sherlock was still staring at his own empty hands. “I’m sorry, I should have bought something else as well,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t keep my thoughts on task.”

“Because of your parents?” John asked. “Or is it still about the man from the warehouse? The one you talked about with Mycroft?”

Determination, desperation – John thought to see multiple emotions cross Sherlock’s face, but just the rage stayed. “He must have made a mistake,” Sherlock seethed. “But no matter which sources I tap into, there’s a dead end.” He pressed his fingers into his temples. “I just can’t concentrate enough. My head is so full with all those superfluous… things. This… endless talking!”

John turned around and put the milk into the fridge. “You could have just mentioned it that I’m bothering you. I can… well, stick to my own business.”

It took John some effort to face Sherlock again. When he brought himself to meet his gaze again, he was surprised to find an expression of complete incomprehension.

“Why should this concern _you_?” Sherlock asked, frowning.

“I just thought…” John started _. No, I didn’t think at all. That would mean I know what the heck is going on!_ “Okay, good, then take it slow, all right? Get used to living like a human again.”

 _Sold again,_ John thought when Sherlock snorted in mock amusement.

“Oh, life will catch up with me sooner than I prefer,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft will make sure the news leaks out and then they will arrive, just like my parents did.”

“Who will arrive?” asked John.

“My friends,” Sherlock spat.

“Oh, your…” John paused. _Of course there is Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, but other people? Like mates to go to the pub with?_   “What’s so bad about that?” he asked tentatively.

Sherlock glanced at him as if he was an idiot – a look John admitted he was getting used to – and disappeared to his room.

“Bollocks!” John cursed. Aborted conversations were becoming the norm, it seemed.

Sherlock didn't make an appearance for breakfast and John assumed that he would be out to search for leads. Yet it turned out that Sherlock had been right about the impending visits, because already the next afternoon, when John had just arrived back from work, Lestrade came by and Sherlock was even present to receive him.

John joined them, although he felt more like an accessory than someone included in the conversation. He watched the two interact and it became clear that they must have known each other before Sherlock had lived as a dragon.

 _Everyone knew Sherlock before that,_ John thought. When Lestrade nevertheless blocked Sherlock’s repeated questions about the incidents in Smithfield Market and Slough, John excused himself and went to the shops. The rising tension was going to end the same way it had with Mycroft and he was not interested in a repeat performance of grown men acting unreasonably. He returned to an empty flat and it stayed like that until the next day, when John once more returned from came back to find Sherlock in company.

There were about a dozen men in their thirties and the air was filled with cigarette smoke. As they all were in a rather witty mood – John spotted several of them with half-empty glasses in their hands – they immediately included John in their midst and he was told a lot of hyphenated names that he tried to remember, but somehow couldn’t summon the energy to keep in mind.

For a short while, he watched Sherlock’s stoical face and marvelled at his ability to endure the silly jokes, but when it became clear that he wouldn’t learn anything about his flatmate that exceeded an obvious disdain for jovial men, John bid everyone goodbye and went to his room.

Listening to the sporadic laughter and the shouts, he lay on his bed. He tried to nod off and failed, so he was thankful when, after an hour, everything became silent again. Downstairs, John found Sherlock brooding over something on the sofa.

“Was it… nice to see everyone?” asked John. _That look again. As if I lost my mind_ – _although this time I think it’s understandable._

Sherlock stretched his legs and got up. “Do you know why they visited me?”

“Because they’re happy you’re back?” John tried.

“Yes, what else could it be?” Sherlock replied with a fake voice. He gave John an equally phony smile before his face fell again. “No, far from it. They wanted to see if I’m some kind of nutcase now. Wanted to make sure I wouldn’t spill their secrets.”

“What secrets?” asked John and Sherlock’s eyes lit up in gleeful anticipation.

“The usual,” he said. “Cheated in the exam, had sex with a professor, sold drugs, stole the family fortune. Those kinds of things.”

“Oh... okay. The _usual_ things.” John watched Sherlock walk to the window and assume a post as if he was on the lookout for an enemy on the horizon.

“And those idiots come here and drop a ton of new things on me,” Sherlock growled towards the glass.

“What?” asked John. “Why would they do that?”

“They don’t do it _voluntarily_ ,” Sherlock explained. “They do it by _being_ here. Didn’t you read the signs?” He turned around and threw John a questioning look. Helplessly, John just shook his head. “Smelled the cheap perfume of Harold’s mistress, saw the traces of cocaine on McAdams’ sleeve and the amount of times Smith-Dorman checked the stock exchange news? He gambled too high, it seems, but with a mortgage of–”

“How do you know all that?” John interjected and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He slowly stepped nearer.

“I see everything, John,” he hissed. “I perceive and connect. All the time. Information is swamping my mind and cluttering it with patterns. I don’t need the sense of smell of a dragon to know that Harold’s affair is a twenty-year-old university student.” He paused, reining in the disgust clearly written on his face. “All those secrets everyone wants to hide. The pretence, the envy, the petty schemes!”

Speechless, John had endured the rant, but when it was his turn to retort, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Have you ever imagined what it is like? Being a dragon?” Sherlock whispered and all John could do was shake his head again.

“So many things don’t matter,” Sherlock muttered. “You just exist. Your instincts lead you and although you perceive the world lucidly, most of the aspects that drive humans are completely insignificant. They don’t occupy your head like a lead weight, they just whiz past.”

“Isn’t that… monotonous somehow?” John stuttered.

“It’s peaceful.”

And going by his voice, he longed for that peace. _So we do have something in common,_ John realised. _We both miss the dragon._

“So why don’t you revert back?” John bit his tongue and the war veteran in him whacked him half a year of PTSD counselling over the head. Yet Sherlock’s look softened a little.

“It was time I found the answers to some questions,” he said and inhaled. “The dragon let his control slip so I could take care of them.”

 _The dragon assumed control at some point in the past?_ John thought. This must have been in the course of whatever had happened to Sherlock.

“Why are you talking about your other form as if he’s a different person?” he asked.

Abruptly, Sherlock turned around again. “Because he is.”

John knew he should contradict, but he simply couldn’t. In those four days, he had done his best to get used to this man in the flat, the voice, the facial expressions, everything... but apart from the moments when the intensity of the dragon had shone through or a spark of green had reminded him of Sherlock’s other self, there had been no real connection between them.

Watching the figure who had positioned itself near the window again, John sorted the impressions of the previous days. There had to be something about this man and John was sure he had seen glimpses of what the others valued in him. Starting with the genius, there were surely other characteristics that made someone like Lestrade invest so much energy in this man. It couldn’t just be due to some strings Mycroft pulled.

 _I never thought about moving out,_ John realised. _So it’s about time I find out why._

He took a step. “So, your search or your questions are about this guy in the warehouse? The one with the experiments?”

For a long while, Sherlock remained motionless.

“Yes.” It didn’t sound convincing. _But it’s all I get, so I have to work with this,_ John encouraged himself.

“Let me help you.”

“No.” The word was quick like a shot. “It’s too dangerous.”

“They got me first, remember?” John insisted. “It’s also my problem.”

Instead of replying, Sherlock whipped around to glower at John.

“You want me to try on my own?” John challenged him and Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“This is something you should keep out of,” he said gruffly, but John heard the alarm in his voice.

“I won’t,” he stated. “You need help, so I’ll help you.” John forced a smile on his face and after a moment, it felt genuine. He held Sherlock’s gaze, which changed from furious to questioning. “That’s what friends are for,” John explained. It had felt odd, though, saying those words. As if they somehow devalued their past together.

A small smile was all John got in return, but like before, he decided that this had to be enough for now.

“So.” He cleared his throat and then crossed his arms on his chest. “Does the enemy have a name?”

This was the end of the smile. John was sure that despite the personal quest Sherlock was on, he would have preferred to turn into the dragon this instant.

“Moriarty,” he said, but his voice sounded as if he had engraved the word into the door with his claw.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to sockeyhoccer, my faithful beta!


	16. Chapter 16

“So why exactly are we here?” John asked and quickened his step. Keeping up with Sherlock wasn’t easy, especially as the pavement was in an equally bad condition as some of the house fronts.

“Moriarty must have been recruiting,” Sherlock explained, not the slightest bit out of breath. “And not just among ex-army people. There aren’t many ready to join such a dubious cause.”

“Yeah, ex-army means more _this_ kind of dubious activity,” John remarked when they turned into a narrow alley that looked like a neglected driveway. A glimpse at Sherlock revealed a lip movement that could have been a smile, but as imperceptible as it was, John couldn’t clearly determine it.

 _Let’s say it was a smile,_ he affirmed himself. “You see, I’ve never been in this part of Bethnal Green,” he said.

“Enjoy the view,” Sherlock scoffed and then he was suddenly gone from John’s side. John turned on his heels and took the stairs down to the cellar of an abandoned-looking house. The tail of Sherlock’s coat showed him that his notion had been right.

“Wait, Sherlock!” John shouted. He stepped into a dark hallway that was only illuminated by the small window in a door at its end. Fighting his annoyance, John tried to keep a calm head and he switched on his mobile to light his way. A crunching sound indicated that Sherlock was still in the cellar.  But then there was silence, so John walked on, listening for voices. He pointed his light into every storage compartment he came by and finally, a faint murmur reached him. Quickly, he walked towards its origin.

“Thank you, Samuel,” he heard Sherlock say and the moment John arrived, a dark shadow rose from the floor. In the light of the mobile, the man who remained on a heap of clothes at Sherlock’s feet just squinted his eyes. “We’re done here, John.”

Sherlock left the compartment and proceeded down the hallway and John hurried after him, eager not to get outpaced again.

“Why don’t you need any light?” John asked. “You must have quite good human eyesight too.”

“In fact, I do,” Sherlock answered and pushed open the door to the stairs. “But that’s not the reason why I know my way in this building.”

John decided against pursuing the topic. A direct reference to Sherlock’s drug excursion would surely kill the mood. Perhaps a more subtle approach would do.

“That guy,” John began instead, “did he know anything useful?”

“No, but that was not to be expected.” Sherlock turned into the main street again but didn’t make any attempt at waving down a cab.

“So, you’re… old acquaintances?” asked John.

“He was once part of a network,” Sherlock answered, hurrying down the street. “Two days ago I found out that he’s still alive.”

“Network?” John couldn’t come up with a logical explanation, so he just pressed out the word and broke into a light jog.

“I wanted to try out if it was possible to outwit the police by creating a homeless network. Gather information before the likes of Lestrade got wind of things,” Sherlock said and took a door to his left without announcing his change of direction. John could barely keep it from shutting in his face.

“I guess that’s why you crossed Lestrade’s path when you were younger?” he asked when he had caught up with Sherlock. The memories that resurfaced seemed to slow down the man at last, John noted with some satisfaction.

“He called it ‘getting in his way’,” Sherlock said. “Back then, he was just a sergeant and keen on a promotion. When it became clear that I’d be his means to get there, he gave up his initial resistance.”

“You were quite… active when you were younger,” John assessed.

“Interested in a lot of subjects,” was the quick answer and also Sherlock’s pace through the backyard became faster.

“Apart from those at university,” John remarked and the pinched lips told him that this would be the end of the conversation.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered under his breath and took the creaking stairs up to the flats that had no doors but housed a multitude of destitute and shady people. Everyone Sherlock deemed worthy of being bombarded with his questions about recruiting attempts, the mentioning of the name Moriarty or the underhand selling of rare chemicals received what looked like a fifty pound note, no matter if they had any information – which, in fact, none of them had.

After two hours of combing the back alleys and courts and empty houses of Bethnal Green and the adjoining boroughs, John’s feet started to hurt. He thanked his fate when a druggie flinched at the mention of recruitment and Sherlock dug deeper, trying to find out what the man had been asked to do. When it turned out that he would have been supposed to carry out a contract killing in the form a mugging gone awry, Sherlock lost his interest. He was on the verge of leaving when John stepped in.

“This man, when was he here and how did he look like?” he asked.

“He came by yesterday. Normal bloke, you see. Maybe your age and hair. But taller and with a beard,” the unkempt youth replied. He shrugged. “My mate knew’m. From his former territory in the north, Harrow, I think. Guy dealt in scrap metal.”

John whipped around. “Have you heard that? We have to tell Lestrade!” he hissed to Sherlock who just frowned and walked towards the gap in the construction site fence. They slipped through it and before Sherlock got a head start again, John grabbed his sleeve.

“Stop already, will you?” John growled. “You have to make that call!”

Sherlock wrested his sleeve free. “And what do you expect Lestrade to do? Assemble a team to investigate the potential murder of, well, someone?” He prepared to leave but John grabbed the coat again.

“Call Lestrade!” He withstood Sherlock’s furious gaze. “This serves him the murderer on a silver platter.”

“A silver platter doesn’t interest me.” Sherlock growled.

“You know what? I will call him.” John took out his mobile and chose the number.

 _“Dr Watson?”_ was the almost immediate question. _“Is there a problem?”_

“I’m sorry to bother you, Detective Inspector,” John said. “But Sherlock and I have come across information about a possible murder.”

 _“A murder? Who is it? Where did it happen?”_ Lestrade asked and John heard rustling.

“No, it hasn’t happened yet, there’s just this guy…”

_“What guy?”_

The DI was obviously becoming impatient and John searched for a way to express the problem. “Well, he’s not exactly a respectable witness, but he said someone wanted to hire him as a contract killer.”

 _“Not respectable? You’re not talking about one of Sherlock’s junkies, are you?”_ Lestrade asked and going by his voice, he had already mentally ended the conversation.

“Probably,” John said quietly.

_“Okay, Doctor, you don’t know it yet, but Sherlock had this… hobby when he was younger and this isn’t something he should pursue any more.”_

“But you know what he can accomplish!” John implored. He threw Sherlock helpless look, but the other man refused to meet his gaze. “Damn it!” He tapped on the display, disconnecting the line. “Okay, that was not a nice goodbye,” he said contritely.

“He’s used to far worse,” Sherlock answered with a shrug. The amount of indifference he displayed grated John’s nerves.

“We have to do something,” John said. “Someone’s going to get killed.”

“This is not our case,” Sherlock repeated and John felt hot anger bubbling up.

“What do you mean by ‘this is not our case’?” he shouted. “By snooping around everywhere, something like that was bound to come up! Hell, this is London! And now _think_ already!”

Sherlock put his hands in his coat’s pockets and simply glowered at John.

“Come on, what have we got?” John asked and took out his mobile to open his browser. “Scrap metal merchant in Harrow. How many can there be?”

“Ten.”

John looked up. That son of a bitch has already typed in the keywords! And going by the thumb’s activity, he was tracking something.

“Eight of them have a photo on their website, so it is easy to determine that they don’t fit the description. Hmm, contract killer means that someone close is the victim, so it’s business or personal,” Sherlock said to the phone instead of John. “As we’re talking about scrap metal merchants, it’s most likely about a wife or a relative and not about money.”

“You’re wrong about that,” John interjected and Sherlock raised his head in surprise. “Scrap metal’s become quite a valuable commodity. And a target of thieves.”

“What are they stealing?” Sherlock asked incredulously. “Railway tracks?”

“If they get the chance,” John said. “But copper’s more popular, so they prefer the overhead wire. There’s a gigantic profit margin, especially in the illegal business of course.”

“That’s… new,” Sherlock admitted. “So what about those two?” he asked his mobile again. “The same street, one of them a beacon of the scrap metal society, the other one with just a mobile number. I’m sure this respectable member of the community has a close eye on his neighbour.” He held the display in front of his eyes to discern every detail of the photo. “Oh yes, he has. Let’s start with them.”

Before John could answer, Sherlock waved down a cab.

“Harrow,” he said and plunked down into the back seat. Automatically, John followed him.

“You want to go there now?” John asked. “The businesses might already be closed. It’s almost six pm.”

“We can’t wait,” Sherlock explained, looking out of the window. “The job was urgent, so much is clear, and this speaks against a personal motive. If you want to kill your wife, you’ve got years to do the planning.”

“Why urgent?”

“It’s stupid to search for a killer in such a way,” Sherlock said and shook his head as if he needed to underline his disapproval. “You can find one in the Internet or after some research in the right neighbourhoods, but asking an addict? That’s risky. Too risky, in fact.”

“He put some distance between himself and the area he tried to find a killer,” John pointed out.

“Not enough as we know now,” Sherlock put him right. “He must be desperate. But he’s not brave enough to do it himself.”

“Or not stupid enough,” John added. He wished for his gun, one never knew what the people they might meet that night were up to.

“You should take it with you the next time,” Sherlock said and turned his head to John.

 _Incredible,_ John thought, and he was convinced that Sherlock knew exactly what had crossed his mind because he gave him a conspiratorial, albeit brief, grin before staring out of the window again. For the rest of the journey, he remained silent, an epitome of composedness and a stark contrast to the growing impatience John felt.

When they arrived at the address in an area characterised by small businesses, John expected Sherlock to inspect the neighbourhood of the walled-in scrap metal yard that belonged their suspect. Instead, he immediately proceeded to the entrance gate and started to pick the lock, implicitly relying on John to stand guard.

“I hope there aren’t any dogs inside,” John whispered, but Sherlock shushed him and pointed to the far end of the yard. There stood a car parked at the end of the path, and its headlights were turned off. Only its courtesy light was still on, making the moving shadows behind the car vaguely perceptible.

John followed Sherlock who inched along the heaps of cars and wire.

“I won’t do it for less than ten, no way!” they heard and stopped.

“Ten it is then,” a different man with a high voice answered.

“They’re almost finished,” Sherlock whispered. “Give me your jacket and alert Lestrade.”

John was still processing the fact that he had been given an order when Sherlock already tore at the back of the jacket while simultaneously shrugging out of the coat. Without thinking about what he was doing, John reached into the inner pocket to get out his mobile and then Sherlock threw on the jacket, stepped forward and marched in the direction of the voices.

“Hey you! Who’s that?” the man who had last spoken shouted.

“I was told there’s a vacancy,” Sherlock answered.

 _Oh shit, he’s stalling!_ John thought. Frantically, he typed in the message for Lestrade, making sure that he used the word ‘armed’ twice.

“You asked another one? What is this? The fucking yellow pages?” the second man cursed.

“No, no, I didn’t ask anyone else!” the high-pitched voice protested.

“My pal in Bethnal Green knows a different story,” Sherlock retorted. “Now what’s that job he told me about? Kept spouting all kind of bullshit about the dosh he could’ve made.”

“What the…?” the second man exclaimed. “Did you want to trick me? Are you with the police?” John heard shuffling and he dared to peek past the iron barrels he was cowering behind. A tall man was looking in all directions, nervously feeling for his pocket.

 _He has a gun!_ flashed through John’s head.

“Calm down, mate,” Sherlock said. “We’re here for business, that’s all.”

John couldn’t say how composed Sherlock really was because he only saw his back. His voice sounded rather steadfast, though. And why shouldn’t this be the case? John thought. _He can’t get injured by the bullets._

No matter how soothing the words had been supposed to sound, they didn’t reach the agitated tall man, who now reached into his pocket. The stubby man in a padded winter coat – obviously the yard’s owner – stepped to the side, clearly alarmed by the way the situation was unfolding.

 _Got more than you bargained for, you would-be thug!_ John mocked inwardly.

“Don’t come any nearer!” the tall man shouted and John saw the outline of a gun in his hand. He wasn’t yet pointing it at anyone, but when Sherlock raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement, the man yanked up the weapon as well. “I said stay where you are!”

 _Damn, he’s getting out of control!_ John thought. He hoped that no one would make a false move now.

“No need to get all territorial about this,” Sherlock said. “Messing with a nutcase like you isn’t my thing.”

 _What are you doing, Sherlock?_ John screamed inwardly when he saw the armed guy getting more nervous.

“Shut the fuck up!” the tall man shouted, but Sherlock ignored him.

“Maybe it’s not a good idea to hire someone who’s that soft in the head,” he said to the smaller man.

“Who are you calling daft?” the tall man shouted.

“I leave you to deal with that lunatic,” Sherlock continued towards the padded winter coat and was already on the verge of turning away when the tall man started to scream.

“Stay where you are, you fucker!” He waved his gun about and then suddenly a shot rang through the night and Sherlock fell over, landing on the ground with just the faintest of noises. The stout man stuttered incomprehensibly, whereas the shooter just stared ahead, seemingly unable to grasp what had happened. A groaning caught John’s attention and he focused on the black heap on the ground again.

 _Why don’t you change? Change already!_ John spurred Sherlock on.

“What… what did you do?” the small man shrieked hysterically. “You killed him!”

“I didn’t kill him _yet_!” the tall man barked and took a step.

John’s hands reached for the heap of scrap metal behind his back before he had even ordered them to. He found what felt like a segment of a narrow tube and after he slipped into the coat, he let a small part of the tube stick out of the sleeve. In the dark, it could pass as the barrel of a gun, John hoped.

“Stay back, you arseholes!” he shouted and rushed from behind the barrels. Surprised, the two men stumbled backwards. “If you don’t piss off, I’ll finish you!”

A siren sounded somewhere in a distance.

“I knew it!” the tall man cried and bolted. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the other man run away too, but his mind dismissed him as insignificant.

“Sherlock!” John flung himself on the ground. With practised fingers, he felt for injuries, but the clothes weren’t torn anywhere. “What’s wrong? Can you speak?” The groan again. “Fuck, Sherlock! Do something! Change already!” John begged.

Sherlock’s pained face lost a bit of its fierceness. “Throat,” he croaked and hectically, John loosened the scarf.

“We need an ambulance,” a voice said. John whipped around and saw two policemen, one of them speaking into his radio.

“No, we don’t!” Sherlock of course. With newfound vigour, he sat up. “The shooter escaped over the wall to the south. He has just a slight advantage! Now go!” Sherlock commanded and the men complied.

John finally managed to loosen the scarf. “Are you bleeding? Shit, how can you be bleeding?” he asked incredulously. In the feeble light, he just saw the contrast between the wound and the light skin. Quickly, he pressed the woollen cloth on the darkest spot which had to be the injury. “Damn it, Sherlock!” he cursed. “How did this happen?”

“It’s nothing serious,” Sherlock answered gruffly and batted John’s hand away. He wiped off the blood as good as he could and then tied the scarf again.

“That needs to be cleaned properly,” John protested and Sherlock huffed out a laugh.

“Don’t be ridiculous. As if I could get a lethal infection,” he said. After getting up as if nothing had happened at all, Sherlock extended his hand. “My phone.”

John searched several pockets of the coat before he found it. Without delay, Sherlock chose a number and from what John could understand, he was directing Lestrade and his men towards the shooter’s escape route. Jogging after Sherlock, who was rushing towards the entrance of the yard, John almost fell on his face when he stepped into a pothole. He was relieved when they reached the street and downright thankful when he could plunk down into the backseat of the cab Sherlock had hailed.

“Don’t you want to wait for Lestrade?” asked John.

“And witness another failure of the police? Now very likely.” Sherlock scrunched up his nose.

 _Of course he loses any interest in the matter the moment the mystery is solved,_ John thought to himself. “Why didn’t you pursue the man who shot you?”

“Not necessary,” Sherlock said. “The scrap metal merchant will make a deal with the police and testify against the killer. And if only to make sure that this nutter who accidentally shot someone ends up behind bars.”

“That’s why you provoked him,” John stated.

Sherlock quirked a small smile.

“But after they both had scampered, you could at least have healed yourself. That wound looked nasty,” John pointed out and the smile disappeared. Turning away to look outside the window, Sherlock raised his mental walls just as effectively as his brother.

Feeling slightly lost, John endured the silent ride, but when they entered the flat, he gathered his courage. All of this didn’t fit together and he’d be damned if he let Sherlock give him a brush-off again.

“What I don’t understand is why it didn’t happen automatically,” he said when he took off the coat. “The transformation, I mean. I thought that when you’re hurt, the dragon takes over to save you.”

Sherlock eyed the door as if he regretted walking through it in the first place.

“With such a minor injury, I can withstand the transformation,” he explained reluctantly. “I can control it better than others.”

Turning his back to John, he declared the issue settled.

“Isn’t that a problem?” John continued. “You see, because you’re all somehow …” he gesticulated, trying to express the concept without words, “…connected and the others feel your pain.”

“They don’t.”

Flabbergasted, John stared at the forbidding back. “What? Why?” he burst out.

“I severed the connection,” Sherlock said quietly and set in motion at last. He walked to the sofa and slumped down on it.

“But this is impossible.” John’s mind refused to keep up. This was madness, Sherlock had to be joking.

“It’s not,” Sherlock answered. “We do it before death approaches, to make sure the others don’t experience the end with the one who is dying.”

“So you woke up one day and decided you’d cut off a part of you?” John asked, keeping his voice down with some effort. The question had sounded like a reproach regardless.

“I had my reasons,” Sherlock said. He untied the scarf and then leaned on the backrest as if he was incredibly exhausted all of a sudden.

“Can it be re-established?” John asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes. “No.”

 _That’s what Mycroft hinted at,_ John thought. He went over to the sofa and knelt on the seat with one knee. Bending down, he tried to get a look at the wound. From his perspective, it appeared to have closed already.

“Any pain?” he asked and Sherlock just moved his head from side to side. “May I?”

A nod, but Sherlock still didn’t open his eyes when John touched the surrounding skin to test if the new tissue endured the pressure.

“That’s quick,” he admitted. He let his fingertips linger on the remarkably warm skin of the throat.

“Tomorrow there won’t be much left of it,” Sherlock said and John’s gaze was drawn to the eyes which, at some point, had started to watch him attentively. In the dim room, only the green specks stood out, reflecting even the faintest ray of light.

John cleared his throat and withdrew his fingers. “But I still don’t understand why you didn’t heal yourself. You gave me quite a scare.”

Small laughter lines appeared around the eyes. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Well, I hope your next adventure doesn’t involve bloodshed,” John said quickly, suppressing the blush he sensed creeping up _. Damn, it’s good to hear him say my name!_ flashed through his head. He sat down next to Sherlock to break the embarrassing eye contact.

“I could be an adrenalin junkie,” Sherlock remarked offhandedly. “Who knows?”

“Why do you say that?” John asked.

“It’s in the realm of the possible when I look at my life ten years ago,” Sherlock replied. “But today? How am I supposed to know?” He inhaled. “There’s something missing. A development I would have undergone as a human. I’m… nothing. Caught up in the mind of a barely mature adult.”

“An exceptional mind,” John interjected.

“Not bad, I reckon,” Sherlock said. “But what else is there?”

John paused, trying to choose the right words yet failing once again. “You’ll find out by and by.”

“I might not like it.” John watched Sherlock’s hands rub over the thighs and fiddle with the cloth afterwards.

“Why not?” John asked. “What I’ve seen until now was a good start.” He turned his head to give Sherlock a reassuring smile. “You’re reckless, single-minded idiot – so it can only get better from now on.”

The insecurity that had looked so distinctly wrong on Sherlock’s face vanished and was replaced by the typical hint of arrogance.

“So I’m ready to interact with the world again?” Sherlock asked in mock incredulousness.

“I’ll keep tabs on you, though,” John answered.

“Good,” Sherlock said. “You can continue on Sunday.” He looked at John expectantly.

 _The trusting eyes. They’re back._ “Pardon?” John rasped when his distracted mind couldn’t be persuaded to deal with the content of the sentence.

“I need to go to a social gathering Harold invited me to,” Sherlock said. “And I’d appreciate it if you came with me.”

“You mean we would go to a party?” John asked. _What’s happening here? He’s not asking me out, is he?_ Slightly flustered, John suppressed the sudden excitement at the thought.

Sherlock shrugged. “Harold is head of the office controlling the import of rare earths and if Moriarty needed one thing, it’s Yttrium. And you don’t get it in large quantities, unless you’re well-connected.”

Now the alarm that had fuelled John’s uncertainty could finally gain attention. “Wait a minute!” he exclaimed before Sherlock could jump up. “You don’t want to break into a safe or computer and only need me to stand watch, do you?”

Sherlock smirked at him. “Admit it, you liked solving the case of the would-be assassin.” When John couldn’t think of an argument to the contrary and simply glowered back, the smirk became what John instantly identified as a leer – especially as it contained a hint of canine. “I think I see a pattern,” Sherlock declared with conviction and rose from the sofa.

John snatched back his hand which had sneakily started to reach out for the promise of danger manifesting before him.

 _Shit!_ he cursed inwardly. _A pattern for sure!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much, sockeyhoccer, for squeezing beta time into your schedule!


	17. Chapter 17

“You could’ve told me that this was a rather formal occasion,” John hissed. “I asked you if I should wear anything special.” John eyed the other guests who glided around the posh dining room as if the Queen herself had invited them. Black suits, even with with the occasional bow tie, accompanied the flowing silk of the ladies. “I feel a bit shabby,” John added dejectedly.

“What?” Sherlock seemed to be genuinely surprised. “You fit in perfectly.”

“This is a tweed jacket,” John whispered and Sherlock knitted his brows.

“I know. I like tweed,” he said. A sly smile prompted John to give up. There was no arguing with this man.

 _You mean I don’t steal your show in tweed,_ John continued inwardly. Those _had_ to be bespoke suits Sherlock was wearing all the time, no doubt about it. Normal suits didn’t fit like that. Not like _that_.

John risked a brief glance at the jacket and the shirt, ignoring the fact that Sherlock immediately caught him out doing so.

 _We surely look ridiculous together,_ John thought and directed his eyes to the other end of the room to study a different piece of art than the one next to him. The large-format painting was almost certainly an original and had cost thousands, just as the rest of the interior.

The fact that no matter where John looked, it felt like he was adding another chapter to his personal humiliation made it hard to focus on why he had looked forward to this evening. Despite the fact that it was supposed to be part of an investigation, it would be his chance to do something different at last and after a week of not even crossing Mike’s path, he could meet new people. _And, above all, I get to know the man I’m sharing a flat with,_ John grumbled inwardly.

His eyes were drawn to a freckled blond man of about Sherlock’s height who broke away from a small group in the middle of the room. He marched straight towards Sherlock and extended his hand. Reluctantly, Sherlock took it.

“Sherlock, you lucky bastard, when they told me you were alive, I couldn’t believe it!” the man exclaimed happily but only elicited a forced smile in Sherlock.

“John, this is Frederic Grieg-Sinding,” Sherlock said in an obvious attempt to divert the man’s attention. “Stock broker and connoisseur of expensive wines. Fred, this is Dr John Watson.”

“Oh, a doctor.” Grieg-Sinding shook John’s hand vigorously. “Well done, Sherlock.”

A pat on the shoulder was all John had to endure, and then the man with the unpronounceable name returned to his group.

“At least that was not as embarrassing as meeting your parents.” John sighed. He knew that Sherlock was waiting for him to go on explaining, but John couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t have him stuttering or fishing for words.

 _The man fancies himself to be a detective,_ he thought. _So he’s very much aware of the fact that everyone thinks we’re a couple._

Before John could change the topic, a petite woman stepped nearer and led Sherlock away, apologising to John for the short trip to the other end of the room she was taking him on.

“Go ahead, I’ll survive,” John replied and then watched to two thread their way through the other people.

 _Technically we_ are _still in a... well, what? Relationship?_ John mused. He grabbed another glass of champagne, but the alcohol didn’t manage to take his mind off the situation. In the previous days, the small number of confrontations with other people had helped him to suppress these questions, yet now, in the face of dozens of people assuming the same thing, it proved impossible to ignore.

 _Relationship! What a load of bullshit!_ flitted through John’s head and his vision blurred when the memories of the day Sherlock made his human appearance resurfaced with a vengeance. S _hit, this is not the time!_ he reprimanded himself. _Although one day we’d better talk–_

“John?”

Coughing and spluttering, John focused on reality again. Sherlock was frowning at him and John could imagine what a sorry sight he must have been, vacantly staring at the floor. He cleared his throat. “Well, but they all seem to be nice people. Are you sure we’ll find out anything?”

The satisfied grin could already have served as an answer. “Oh yes,” Sherlock drawled on top of the smirk.

“So what about yesterday?” John asked. “When you were gone.”

“What about it?” Sherlock retorted. “Was the flat too empty?”

 _Yes,_ John managed to bite back. He answered Sherlock’s feigned look of concern with an expression that he hoped would pass off as indignation. “I mean, did you come across anything new?” he pressed out and to his relief, Sherlock turned towards the other guests again.

“After the failure with his last personnel, our target seemed to have recruited people who are less traceable. Rumour has it they belonged to former East European secret services.” Sherlock mood’s received a visible damper at the thought. 

“Well, that’s a facer,” John admitted. “Finding out something about them is like trying to find out more about Mycroft.” They both snorted in agreement. “What is it with you and him anyway?” John asked. “Is there a particular reason why you’re constantly at each other’s throats?”

“It’s… not a typical sibling problem,” Sherlock hedged.

“It isn’t? Because basically it looks like one,” John said. “There’s been a conflict in the past and one of the brothers has more reasons to apologise but doesn’t.”

Sherlock mulled this over for a moment.  “You might be right,” he said quietly. “But the leopard can’t change his spots. Or his ugly ties.”

Whilst uttering the last sentence, Sherlock regained his usual vigour. John briefly entertained the notion of asking him what exactly had made the brothers fall out with each other. In the end though, he decided that Mrs Hudson’s conviction of Mycroft’s guilt had to be enough proof.

“At least you make him pay,” John said. “Quite literally.”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh.

“But why don’t you use your talents to be more independent?” John asked. “Perhaps then he’d be forced to show his brotherly love in a different way.”

John didn’t know if it was the concept of ‘brotherly love’ or the idea of honest work that had Sherlock stop scrutinising the guests and face him instead.

“You could be a private eye,” John suggested. “Investigate – like you do now. Meddle in people’s affairs and not only earn their annoyance but also their money.”

“Lestrade wouldn’t pay me,” Sherlock pointed out.

“But others would,” John retorted. “I could make you a website to advertise your services.”

The look was becoming even more searching. “That’s an interesting idea. You are not as simple as you often pretend to be,” Sherlock said.

“Golly, my pleasure,” John replied with as much sarcasm as he could muster. He downed the rest of his champagne and placed the glass on a passing waitress’s tray.

“Then let’s get some practice for our new business,” Sherlock said and without waiting for John’s reply, he started in the direction of the hallway.

“Our business?” John hissed, trying to keep up with him. “You do remember that I’m still…?” His question was cut short when he bumped into Sherlock who had suddenly stopped and turned his head. John felt his hand being clutched, but before he could ask Sherlock what the hell was going on, he was pulled forwards. Outside the dining room, Sherlock let go of him and aimed for the stairs.

“What was that?” John whispered. “Did you just wink at our host?”

“Well observed,” Sherlock said. “Now he thinks we want to spend some private time.”

“That’s just... that’s just great,” John said. He didn’t even make an attempt at sounding sarcastic because Sherlock was ignoring him anyway. Instead, he carefully kept their surroundings in view, listening for steps or voices, and sneaked upstairs with Sherlock, who unhurriedly directed his steps at a particular door on the first floor.

“Damn, Sherlock, someone could have seen us!” John whispered. Undeterred by what was going on around him, Sherlock picked the lock and pulled John inside the room the moment the door opened a crack.

“You watched out for anything suspicious, didn’t you?” Sherlock asked. “So there was no need to worry.” He sat down at the desk in the middle of the room and opened the laptop. John waited for typing or the searching of drawers to begin, but Sherlock leaned back in the chair instead. He raised his eyebrows, clearly expecting John’s reaction.

“Hurry!” John whispered urgently, but nothing happened. “What’s wrong, Sherlock? Get on with it already!”

“No, _you_ get on with it,” was the reply.

“With what, damn it!” John cursed.

“You tell me the password.”

John peeked through the door and when he didn’t see anyone in the hallway, he closed it. “I don’t know the fucking password,” he blurted out.

“You said we’d be detectives,” Sherlock stated calmly. “So go on. Detect.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, I don’t know!” Nervously, John rubbed his temples.

“Then _think_ already!” Sherlock commanded and as if on cue, John stood straight. _Bloody army!_ he cursed inwardly, but the challenge had his mind already rushing through the events of the previous week.

_The first time Sherlock’s friends were at Baker Street… Harold… The mistress!_

“The student’s name,” John barked and the corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched.

“What else?” he asked.

“Her day of birth?” John tried and Sherlock couldn’t hide his grin any more.

“What about both?” he suggested.

“I know neither!” John almost shouted. _“Do_ something!”

And finally, Sherlock moved. He extended his index finger and let it descend on the keyboard.

 _Enter._ That was all. The letters and numbers Sherlock must have filled in before his little charade just needed to be confirmed.

 _A fucking test!_ shot through John’s head. He looked daggers at Sherlock who was fixated on the laptop, his eyes flitting over the information on the screen. Debating with himself if he should kill Sherlock right there or wait until they were home again, John opted for a latter and instead checked if the coast was still clear.

“I’m ready.”

“What the–?” John whipped around and found himself nose to shoulder with the other man. “For Christ’s sake, Sherlock!” he hissed, turning around again. “Stop sneaking up to me like that.”

“What happened, John?” Sherlock purred. “You didn’t use to be startled so easily.”

Calling up his entire concentration, John focused on the task of getting them out undetected.

 _Not the time to deal with the past, not the time…_ he repeated inwardly. He was already breathing a sigh of relief because they had reached the half landing, when suddenly, loud chattering sounded from downstairs. Before John could think of retreating, he was pushed into the wood panelling and confronted with the same view of some moments ago, only now, his nose was pressed into Sherlock’s collar and the rest of his body was firmly immobilised.

“You didn’t, did you?” John heard a woman’s voice ask and then she and a man chuckled. Steps approached on the stairs. “And what did he… oops!”

The chuckle started again, now clearly fuelled by embarrassment, and the woman whispered something John couldn’t understand before slowly, the steps descended the stairs again. John inhaled, gasping for the oxygen he had neglected to breathe in.

 _That smell._ Automatically, he took another breath. _It’s him._

“And, are you satisfied?” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear.

_The cologne can’t hide it. It’s there!_

“With what?” John asked, increasingly unable to form a coherent thought.

“Our progress,” he heard somewhere at the back of his mind.

“Huh?” was all John could utter when his pulse hammered in his ears and its sound and the earthy smell of the dragon dominated his senses, causing complete disorientation.

“With our professional investigation business,” Sherlock growled, yanking John’s reason to the foreground again.

“Right,” John croaked. “Good… start.” With some difficulty, he listened for the two disturbers. “I think they’re gone.”

“So… should we return to the dining room again?” Sherlock asked but didn’t move, making John hyperaware of all the places where they were still touching.

Breathing as shallowly as he could, John clenched his teeth. “Yes,” he hissed without moving his lips and in an instant, the cheek leaning against the side of John’s head, the chest pressing into his shoulder, and the hand that had held on to his lower arm were gone.

Without further notice, Sherlock vanished downstairs. The distant murmuring of the people in the dining room was all that remained and John’s feet inched forwards, reminding him of the fact that he should follow Sherlock.

 _What the hell was that?_ Something that definitely demanded a drink, John decided, and he mentally saluted the waitress who approached him the moment he entered the dining room. Alcohol was the perfect remedy now and it would hopefully help to alleviate the surge of all too familiar cravings a whiff of the dragon had triggered.

 _And having a glass in my hand doesn’t make it too obvious that my company obviously buggered off,_ John thought. He gulped down the champagne and motioned for another one.

“Do you have anything else?” he asked the waitress.

“Maybe Scotch, sir?” she asked and John nodded, grabbing another glass of champagne regardless. He looked around but still couldn’t spot Sherlock. _That sneaky bastard! If he left without telling–… all right, there he is._

John compressed his lips. No wonder it had been almost impossible to see Sherlock because the bloke he was talking to was practically all over him. Sherlock, in turn, was leaning against the wall and listening attentively to whatever drivel the man was spouting.

“Your Scotch, sir.”

John blinked, thankful for the distraction that demanded his eyes’ attention. “This is not going to last long,” he said to the waitress. “It would be convenient if you accidentally popped by with another one in about, let’s say, ten minutes.”

She smiled at him conspiratorially before she resumed her path. John nipped at the whiskey and then resisted downing it completely because at least the liquid Scotsman would keep him company. Surreptitiously glancing at the other end of the room, John was glad he didn’t hold the champagne flute any more because the stem would surely have snapped by now.

 _God, why can’t this guy speak to Sherlock without touching him all the time? And how come Sherlock, who even keeps a distance with his own parents, lets himself be groped by such a slimy busybody?_ Irritated, John took another sip.

“Where did you get that from?” a female voice asked. John tore his eyes away from the spectacle and acknowledged the woman who had joined his observation point next to the door. “If I have one more glass of champagne, my plan to get plastered will die a sad and very slow death,” she said.

She was taller than him, but not excessively so. A slim brunette, wearing a bored and slightly derisive expression. John was sure that she had arrived at the party only recently because she would have attracted his attention if she had been there before. Already the look with which she was scrutinising the other guests called out to John in more ways than he would ever admit.

“About your night’s strategy: You might be in for a surprise if you wait for a minute or two,” he said knowingly. “I’m John, by the way.”

“Samantha,” she replied. “One of Harold’s unfortunate sisters-in-law. God knows why Carol decided to marry that fat snob,” she sneered.

“Aren’t you afraid I’m one of his friends?” John asked and she snorted rather inelegantly.

“You? Never,” she said with conviction. “You look genuinely nice and not like you’re pretending to be someone else. Very much in contrast to all the phony show-offs in this room.”

“Oh look, your surprise!” John snatched the tumbler from the tray and handed the whiskey to his new acquaintance. “Another one, please,” he said to the waitress.

“As I imagined. No empty promises,” Samantha remarked. “Make that two!” she called after the waitress.

“I see you are a woman who can’t easily be put off her objectives,” John said and they clinked glasses. The alcohol was already losing its sting which could only mean that the champagne had been more effective than he had anticipated. _How many glasses did I actually have?_ John wondered, but his dizzy mind refused to keep tabs.

“Here’s to drowning this miserable night in liquid gold,” Samantha said and took a big gulp. “So John, what brings you to this congregation of frauds and upstarts?”

“Well, you could say that I’m a friend of a friend of s... sorts,” John answered, forcing his tongue into cooperation at the last word. _Damn, how long has it been since I had more than one drink? Mike’s birthday half a year ago?_ “And you got that right, I’m really out of place here,” he added.

“What a pleasant surprise. The second one tonight,” she said and gave him a smile. John’s eyes briefly surveyed the room, but Sherlock and the man he had been talking to were gone. _Okay, if that’s the way things will play out, suit yourself!_ John ranted inwardly.

“And here comes the third,” he said when the waitress arrived again. Before grabbing a fresh drink, he emptied his glass and watched in astonishment that Samantha did likewise. With the rising level of alcohol, John felt better and worse at the same time, but he decided to follow the voyage he had embarked on and therefore gave Samantha a wide grin. “This won’t be the last enjoyable part of the night, I hope.”

Although the alcohol now made itself felt quite vigorously, John drank up the glass, keen on keeping up with Samantha, who seemed to have more practice.

“I’m telling you, John, if we switch back to champagne after this, even Harold will look attractive in no time,” she promised. “Or I’m going to make a scene by recounting some of the stories that fat slob would prefer to keep under the carpet.”

“I’m convinced I have better ones,” a well-known baritone retorted. John refused to turn around, but Samantha’s face lit up in astonishment.

“Oh my God, is that you?” she exclaimed immediately and reached out for Sherlock. John stepped to the side to let the familiar scene unfold. “You’re such an arse, you know that? You could at least have written a postcard!” she scolded Sherlock whilst simultaneously stroking his face as if she had to make certain that he wasn’t a ghost. Despite her warm welcome, which distinguished her as one of his former friends, Sherlock seemed to be even cooler to her than to people he knew less.

“I take it you met John?” he said and her eyes widened.

“ _Sherlock_ is the friend you were talking about?” Samantha asked John, but before he could react, she turned away again. “Oh, wow, that’s… you see, I didn’t want to invade your territory! Had I known that he was here with you–”

“No reason to get upset,” Sherlock interjected. “I left him out of my sight.”

Samantha regained some of her self-confidence. “Quite unusual for you,” she said. “Your absence must have made you lenient.” As if to ensure a safe retreat, she stepped back before she faced John again. “Nice to meet you, John. And Sherlock, no offence, okay?”

“None taken,” Sherlock said curtly and then she made her escape, mingling with a group of women who were just about to admire each other’s dresses.

“What the hell was that about?” John snarled. “Is it too much to ask that I get a bit of fun as well?”

He winced inwardly. _That came out all wrong! Fuck, I’m not jealous, am I?_ It was impossible to evade Sherlock’s gaze though, because this would immediately have given his insecurity away. Yet answering the searching look was just as difficult.

“She knows me,” Sherlock explained. “We met twelve years ago when I told her that she should warn her sister about Harold.”

“And?” _What’s the use of background information now?_

“Carol ignored her warnings, which meant that also Samantha became a member of our circle of... people,” Sherlock continued. “So, as I said...” His eyes narrowed. “She knows me.”

While slowly getting lost in the look that seemed to pull him nearer with some indistinct force, John failed to fathom what Sherlock was talking about. “But what does that have to do with the fact that she took off like that… after you showed up?” he asked.

Sherlock took a step, activating John’s flight instincts which, as in the past, only decided to heighten his senses and force him to hold his ground. Currently this still helped though, as the alcohol was making him increasingly wobbly on his legs.

“It doesn’t matter which form,” Sherlock said. He bent forwards and John could feel the puff of his breath on his ear. “I’ve always been a predator. No one crosses my path,” the silky voice declared.

John closed his eyes and imagined the sneer on Sherlock’s face. The tiny curl of the upper lip. The rigidity of the body that was ready to pounce – it would put anyone to rout, John thought. Anyone but him, it seemed.

“What do you say about we stop the games and continue what we started on the stairs,” Sherlock whispered and John gasped for air.

 _Damn, that smell!_ “But what about...?”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock interjected. “Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t have settled for Samantha, isn’t that right?” John felt a hand travel up his arm. “You would have set out for the ultimate chase. Where most danger lies but the reward is just as tempting.”

“I... what do you…?” John stuttered.

Sherlock stepped back and their eyes locked again. “Just what I would have done. Similar patterns, remember?”

John’s mind had already quit its service during the brief episode of close proximity, and as muzzy as his whirling thoughts presented themselves, he just threw Sherlock a helpless look.

“Carol, in contrast to her husband, likes to keep in shape,” Sherlock explained with a grin. “She surely works out at home. Most likely in the cellar. The fully developed cellar, now completely devoid of people.” John’s befuddlement only increased. “What about we find a suitably quiet place?” Sherlock drawled.

 _A simple question! Good._ John nodded dumbly and then followed Sherlock who busied himself with a door at the end of the hallway. John swayed slightly and when he descended into the darkness opening up behind the door, he needed to clutch the rail of the staircase with both hands. Downstairs, Sherlock switched on a light on their way, but they didn’t stay in the lit space and without thinking, John shuffled through the corridors of white tiles and wood panelling.

Sherlock turned into a room and before John could get his bearings, his shoulders were grabbed and he was manoeuvred onto something soft – a large deckchair of sorts, John reckoned, and his world spun because of the change in position.

“How would they continue?” Sherlock asked and casually shrugged out of his jacket and shirt. “Hypothetical John and hypothetical me at this party. After they had found out they were on each other’s dance card?”

 _Touch!_ John’s fingers decided. They reached out for the pale skin and it was comfortably warm and smooth, taking up all of John’s attention.

“Dunno,” he rasped. “Doesn’t matter what.”

Arousal tricked his body into cooperation, mixing with the alcohol in the strangest fashion, and somewhere at the back of his head, John registered Sherlock asking him what exactly he wanted. Yet when he felt a hand on his crotch, all John could do was nod again. It had to go on, whatever it was: Dextrous fingers that opened his trousers, a hand around his hardening cock. Lips sucking in the tip.

“Yes!” John panted. He lost himself in the warmth and unasked, impressions flared up, calling back sensations that were close to this here, so close… A hard suction snatched away the last bit of self-control and he could almost feel the dragon’s strong tongue again, sliding, squeezing, and always balancing on the brink of pain.

“Harder… please!” he implored, and the busy mouth didn’t give him any rest from then on, chasing him with enough friction to almost resemble what John craved. Under the double onslaught of alcohol and endorphins, John felt his consciousness slip, but it was the mental image of the dragon between his legs that pushed him towards completion at last, sweeping him away in a rush he remembered all too vividly. Tremors shook him until the lips and the tongue finally showed mercy and let go, yet the loss of contact saw him wide awake again.

 _More!_ his mind demanded.

“Then touch me,” John heard. Had he said the previous word out loud? It didn’t matter, and the fact that he couldn’t imagine a proper line of action was of even less importance. Blindly, he grabbed what he could get hold of Sherlock’s shirt and pulled him upwards. He felt for the waistband and his hands were every bit as eager as Sherlock’s fingers, which made short work of John’s buttons. Something was off about all of this for sure, but every cell in him insisted on more contact regardless of the unfamiliar feel of flesh on flesh.

Fumbling his way through Sherlock’s trousers and pants, John even managed to continue focussing on his task when Sherlock’s fingertips grazed his nipples. The rigid member that was waiting to be freed would doubtlessly turn the tables, and already at John’s first firm grip, the balance shifted.

 _Different. Human,_ crossed John’s mind. _But still helpless in my hands._

He felt Sherlock strain into the fingers with needy strokes. Almost as hot as the dragon’s organ, this penis was bewilderingly familiar and different at the same time, and John eagerly traced every other patch of skin he could reach. It was there – the energy that had simmered under the dragon’s hide like a condensed volcano, yet in this skin, it felt as if it was weaved into it.

“John... I’ll... I...” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, but John didn’t need a warning. He sensed the vibrating molecules, the heat that was virtually seeping through skin’s layers and when the body hovering over him tensed and Sherlock came, a deep growl mixed with moans of pleasure. Like a primal torrent, pent up energy washed over John and he struggled to withstand the force with which Sherlock shoved his hardness forwards. Spurts of hot semen were already cooling on his belly when the frantic movements finally stopped and John noted with relief that his own head appeared to be a lot clearer now.  He suspected that the alcohol was filtered out of his blood to a certain degree.

 _All the better. No more time to waste._ His fingers already commanded him to continue what he had been doing, yet Sherlock sat up and interrupted any further exploration.

 _Damn, it must be the light,_ John thought. _No one can be that handsome._

He relaxed back into the chair and enjoyed the first halfway steady look that didn’t involve whiskey induced double vision. Absentmindedly, he licked off a bit of the fluid on his fingers and a snicker escaped him before he could give it a second thought. “Quite curious, really, that it’s the same,” he explained when Sherlock gave him a frown. The knitted brows became even more pronounced.

“The same as what?”

 _Oh shit, shit, what did I…?_ John searched his sluggish brain. The alarm in Sherlock’s voice was too pronounced.

“Just like… the smell,” John said meekly. “You… smell the same.” The stony expression answering him gave proof that this had been the wrong approach.

“Is that what happened on the stairs?” Sherlock asked and before John was able to respond, Sherlock went on. “Is that what you imagined a moment ago? How it would feel if it was _his_ tongue?” he snarled and now it was the crippling feeling of being caught red-handed that rendered John speechless.

It took Sherlock mere seconds to step down from the chair and close his trousers. Too short a time for John to say the words that would have been necessary. And no chance at all to find them first.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, why doesn't this story end already? Never mind, sockeyhoccer bears with me, and that's one of the central issues!


	18. Chapter 18

John rolled over and kept his eyes shut, refusing to give in to the mild throbbing of his head. There was a chance that it would become a lot worse once he got up and he didn’t want to find out yet.

Better sleep. Forget and sleep for a little while. Forget what had happened in the basement, the embarrassing search for a towel and the entrance to the dining room that had presented him with the exact same scene as before – except for the fact that the man who had been so keen on getting his hands on Sherlock had taken his jacket off.

John rubbed his face and breathed in. That guy! Broad-shouldered, attractive and surely a complete arsehole. The latter didn’t prevent Sherlock from fixing him with his gaze though, and when a smile stole on Sherlock’s lips, albeit briefly, John knew it was high time to leave.

 _Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes!_ John cursed inwardly. He got up, thankful that his head went along with the change of position, and walked to the wardrobe. In the mirror on the inside of its door, he was greeted by his own disgruntled reflection. _Bloody hell, I look a mess._

Ruffling his hair didn’t make him more presentable, but putting on clothes might serve this purpose. And then?

When he tore some jeans and a T-shirt from the shelves, pulling out a multitude of other clothes with them, he admitted that the rage he had felt simmering until now was becoming even more pronounced at the thought of the empty flat. Sherlock hadn’t come home – at least not until the late hours of the night John had spent tossing and turning – and that meant he had stayed at the place of the nameless guy in shirtsleeves.

Distracting himself from the scenarios his mind conjured up, John looked at his alarm clock. It was almost ten and his short shift around midday would start soon, so he should make the best of his time at home and spend a quiet breakfast.

As he had anticipated, there was no one downstairs. The door to Sherlock’s room was closed and no sound could be heard. John was on the verge of entering the bathroom when he stopped to sniff the air. _Cigarette smoke!_ Stifling his relief at the thought, John showered, but when he was shaving, the possibility that someone could still be with Sherlock was slowly gaining weight.

 _This is my home as well!_ he affirmed to himself and went to the kitchen to prepare tea and toast. He studied the newspaper for some time only to catch himself scanning for anything that could be connected to Moriarty.  At that point, he decided that this was the last straw. The morning wouldn’t hold any peace for him, so arriving at work early was the best idea.

 _What is your bloody problem?_ he wanted to shout at Sherlock’s closed door, but instead, he grabbed his jacket and put on his shoes, eager to leave as quickly as possible.

“John.”

Almost dropping his keys, John whipped around. From out of nowhere, Sherlock had appeared at last, his ratty T-shirt and pyjama bottoms underlining his somewhat dishevelled appearance. He smelled strongly of tobacco.

 _Exhausting night indeed,_ John thought. “What?” he barked and Sherlock winced as if it was him who had the hangover. Which was impossible of course, but he compressed his lips and shuffled with his feet, looking so incredibly insecure that John’s anger was toned down a fraction.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock muttered. “I shouldn’t have...” John’s breath caught. He wasn’t sure if he could bear to hear the details. Or anything at all. “You… you were drunk,” Sherlock continued quietly. “I took advantage of your... state.”

He worries about _that_? John searched the guilty expression Sherlock was still wearing.

“You really needn’t, well… don’t worry.” John struggled to adjust to the new situation. “We… we had a bit of harmless fun,” he said at last, but the words didn’t cause any of the reactions he had anticipated. Instead of being relieved or adopting at least his carefully neutral expression, Sherlock swallowed visibly and then seemed to fight against the urge to lash out.

“I… I have to go to work,” John stuttered and finally Sherlock’s face became a mask of indifference again, which was a lot less reassuring than John had hoped. He turned to go regardless, afraid that whatever he would say would be misread again, but his raised pulse refused to slow down, not even when he reached the tube station.

With great effort, he convinced himself to get on the train instead of returning home because although his minor headache was slowly becoming a major one, the way he had let the confrontation end didn’t give him any rest.

_Damn it! I shouldn’t feel like I made a mistake! He was the one who picked up someone else as if nothing had happened!_

After having arrived at the hospital, he took some pain meds, hoping that they would take away the feeling that his brain was about to explode, but he had to accept the fact that the hangover didn’t have anything to do with it. With as much of his professional mind-set in action as possible, he managed to get through the first two hours.

 _Don’t slow down,_ he urged himself on when he was sorting some files. _Don’t think of what Sherlock might be doing at home. That shirt guy could –_

John had almost shouted out loud when a hand touched his shoulder. “What–?” The tension in his body dissipated when he saw Mike’s wide grin.

“So, what about a sandwich?” Mike asked.

“And coffee would be great,” John replied directly. Finally! After wandering around in a world of people he didn’t know, hearing stories he only understood sketchily, and doing things that would haunt him one moment later, there was a friend who simply wanted to chat.

When they settled down in a quiet corner of the cafeteria, the smell of coffee and the familiar surroundings made John’s frantic pulse calm down at last. He leaned into the chair and took a bite of the sandwich.

“You look tired,” Mike remarked and John huffed out a laugh.

“I went to a party last night,” he said. “I’m not getting any younger, it seems.”

“A party, you say?” Mike couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the concept. _Speaks volumes about my former life,_ John mused. “With Molly?” Mike asked.

“What?” Now John had problems grasping the connection. Too much had happened in the previous weeks. “No, no… with…” He paused briefly. This was still Mike. Whatever reservations he had regarding dragons, he wouldn’t forsake a friend, John decided. “With Sherlock,” he said. “You see, he’s back in his human form. Permanently.”

When Mike’s face lit up, John expected a speech about the advantages of this new development as it would take away the danger Mike had seen.

“John, I’m glad you’ve started with this topic,” Mike said eagerly. “Already the last time we met I wanted to apologise to you, but you were gone so quickly.”

“Apologise?” John asked.

“Of course!” Mike inhaled. “After our… disagreement, I first thought you had lost your mind. Honestly, John, I couldn’t imagine what possessed you.” He smiled sheepishly. “But then I mulled the whole story over. And what you told me, and in the end, I understood that if I didn’t come to terms with my past, I wouldn’t get what’s going on with you.”

John shook his head. He obviously couldn’t read people any more. This was already the second incident in a day. “All right, just… continue,” he said hastily when Mike started to play with his napkin.

“Erm, well…” Mike cleared his throat. “So I went to my stepdad. Eighty, but still fit as a fiddle, no wonder. Damn, those dragon genes... quite a win in the lottery, aren’t they?”

“Depends,” John said. “But what about your stepfather?”

“Oh, right. I asked him about the argument I witnessed, the one where he, well, transformed, and I asked him what it had meant. If he had wanted to scare my mother because he sure as hell scared me!”

“And?”

“I wish I had known it before,” Mike said and then fell silent. He looked so forlorn and sad for a moment that John was about to say something, when he suddenly recovered. “My mother. She didn’t leave him because he was a dragon. She left him because she had an affair.”

“And when he changed during the fight?” John asked.

“He couldn’t deal.” Mike shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “He was so deeply hurt that it triggered the change, but my mother was never afraid of him.”

John only peripherally heard Mike telling him how grateful he was that he was able to clear up this part of his life and how sorry he felt for not being more supportive when John confided in him.

 _So emotional turmoil can trigger the change as well? But what about the other way round? From dragon to human?_ John wondered. Why was the only information he had Sherlock’s insufficient explanation that the dragon let his control slip to make it possible for the human to work out things? Was this all of it – or complete rubbish to begin with?

John forced his attention back to the present. He managed to sincerely accept Mike’s apology and then drew his attention to a case he wanted to defer to him. Talking shop helped John to avoid getting lost in thought, but the remaining three hours felt endless.

 _This is it!_ he decided. _The time of taking this shit is officially over!_ He would clear things up, no matter what it took, and at five, he stormed out of the hospital and ran to the tube at such a speed that he was sweating when he squeezed into the train. The crowded carriage increased his body heat even more, making him stew in his own juice.

 _Concentrate!_ he commanded himself. _What are you going to ask him?_ About the guy at the party, yes, but finding out when exactly things had started to go wrong in the first place would be a better approach. Unbidden, his memories took him to the moment Sherlock had last transformed. To that kiss that had felt more like an accidental bumping into each other than anything else.

John closed his eyes trying to remember the sensations but he couldn’t. If it had lasted a bit longer! If he could have caught a look of those lips… of that incredibly alluring mouth! How would it feel? Soft? Coaxing and probing like the dragon’s tongue had always proceeded? Or would it be as demanding as the hands that had clutched him and were holding him?

The train stopped and John ripped his eyes open. People started pushing and shoving him to get out and he hectically looked around if any of the passengers were paying attention to him before he inconspicuously wiped away the sweat that had collected on his brow.

 _Holy shit!_ He pulled at his collar but the move didn’t really cool him off. _This is not what tonight is about!_ Digging up the scenes of Sherlock and shirt guy helped to put what was waiting for him in perspective again, however the prospect of a confrontation about that topic made John hope Sherlock wouldn’t be at home.

But fate wasn’t so generous. That Sherlock was in the flat indeed didn’t only become clear by the light. It was rather the solid wall of smoke and unbearable stench that unmistakeably announced someone’s presence. John entered the living room and reflexively started coughing.

“Damn it, Sherlock!” he shouted and ran to the window to tear it open. Slowly the toxic vapours escaped and gave a clear view of Sherlock at the kitchen table full of laboratory equipment. “Are you conducting experiments while smoking? Are you out of your mind?” John railed, but Sherlock didn’t look up.

 _Oh, right,_ John thought. _Seamlessly continuing the morning’s huff._

He closed the window again as the icy cold from outside made the room almost as uncomfortable as before – the state it would return to in no time because Sherlock had just lit another cigarette.

John suppressed his urge to lecture him about second-hand smoke. _Important things first,_ he reminded himself. _The health of my lungs has to wait._

“Want some tea?” John asked, but instead of answering, Sherlock took a deep drag on his cigarette, almost diminishing it by half. Gritting his teeth, John boiled the kettle and took a mug from the shelf. “Anything happen today?” he asked, still facing the sink. He was afraid that another blatant show of immaturity would make him lose his patience.

No reply. And John could easily imagine the facial expression going with the stubborn silence.

“Well, make sure to warn me about an imminent explosion,” John said, pouring the water into his mug. “I wouldn’t want to miss the fun of standing right next to it. So I get properly blown to bits.”

 _Finally, a reaction! Angry glowering is better than nothing,_ John decided when he turned around.

“I know what I’m doing,” Sherlock snarled.

John raised his eyebrows. “I seriously doubt it,” he retorted, but Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

“Explanations are useless. You wouldn’t understand any of this,” he said and was about to focus his attention on the table again.

 _Oh, you…!_ John kept himself from slamming his fist on the table. “I’m not talking about your bloody experiments, okay?” he shouted, producing the first sign of surprise he had seen this evening. _Now or never!_ he spurred himself on, and the conversation with Mike pushed one question ahead.

“Why did you change?” he exclaimed, beyond caring how the question could sound to Sherlock. “I mean, you’re not making an awful lot of progress in your Moriarty case and you don’t seem to care too much!”

Stoically, Sherlock held his gaze. Even his cigarette was forgotten.

“You heard me!” John insisted. “Why did you become human at that moment?”

There was a twitching of the eyes and the mouth that John couldn’t pin down, but then one expression became very pronounced. Nervously, John shuffled backwards and bumped into the sink.

“Which moment?” Sherlock sneered and got up from his chair.

“You know...” John started. The furiously gleaming eyes promised severe peril though, silencing him for good. Staring John down, Sherlock approached and when he had reduced the distance to less than two feet, he dragged on his cigarette.

“Enlighten me,” Sherlock cajoled mockingly, blowing smoke in John’s face.

“When I asked you to... when I wanted you to...” John tried, suppressing his need to cough at the same time.

“You can’t say it!” Sherlock snorted, gracing his words with a smile so condescending that John’s anger got the upper hand again.

“Why then?” he maintained.  He snatched the cigarette from Sherlock’s fingers and stubbed it out in the sink. “I want a fucking answer, and believe me, I’m gonna get it,” he hissed.

“All of this doesn’t matter!” Sherlock gave back just as fiercely.

“It bloody well does!” John said. “I want to hear it from you, all right? Why did you transform at _that moment_?”

Sherlock’s defiant expression announced a possible retreat. _Oh no, you won’t! Not now!_ John thought. “Say it!” he shouted. “You can’t expect–”

“Because I might have done what you asked me to!” Sherlock snarled at last. “How long do you think I could have withstood such an offer?”

“What?” John asked incredulously. “I didn’t force you to do anything!” he declared and the laughter shaking Sherlock at this utterance sounded downright ugly.

“It isn’t supposed to be like that, don’t you understand?” he said after he had calmed down a little.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” John asked.

“All those novels depicting dragon-human relationships – have you read at least one of them?” John shook his head. “Of course they start with two _humans_ meeting, finding out later that one of them is a dragon. That’s how it’s supposed to be, that’s why we live in human form,” Sherlock explained as if he was speaking to a five-year-old.

“Are you kidding me?” John asked. “You’re not talking about some dubious medieval conventions or something, are you?”

“This is not about conventions! This is about what’s _natural_!” Sherlock snarled. “The dragon is supposed to hook up with one of its kind. That’s how it works!”

“But I know that I–” John started.

“You don’t know anything!” Sherlock shouted. “You were completely blinded by your physical response because for some twisted reason, you had to be the one in a billion chance!”

“What are you talking about? What chance?” John felt his whole system become paralysed at Sherlock’s words.

“It’s not supposed to work this way around. It’s so rare that no one even bothered to write it down.” Narrowing his eyes at John, Sherlock inclined his head. “A dragon being able to provoke such a response in a human? That’s madness, John. It’s not one of those bonds following a human connection. This is different! Pure instinct, all of it! You would be lucky if I didn’t kill you!”

“But I… I trust you,” John blurted out.

“Oh, do you?” Sherlock asked with a deceivingly similar voice to Mycroft’s. “You conveniently forget the most important thing: _I’m_ not the one you trust. I’m someone you have _harmless fun_ with.”

John inhaled, trying to keep his temper in check. “You’re not a split personality.” He ignored the threat of yet another step Sherlock took towards him, but when a hand shot out to grab John’s collar, panic flared up uncontrollably.

“So if it was possible, you would let _me_ do it?” Sherlock pressed out. “The human? Bond with you? Let a madman subject you to pain and then chain you to him for the rest of your life?”

Holding on to the counter he was pushed into, John desperately sorted through the warring feelings in him. _He’s not going to hurt me now,_ he affirmed himself, but the smell and the proximity were taking their toll again, confusing him beyond measure. Only when Sherlock took a step backwards, John’s mind cleared to a degree.

“Just as I thought,” Sherlock said and before John could reply, he continued. “It’s never been me.”

“But that’s not true… that’s… I…” Something profound that would weaken Sherlock’s statement didn’t want to pass John’s lips.

“For someone who wants to be a detective, you’re rather slow on the uptake,” Sherlock growled. Green was flashing up in his eyes and he visibly struggled for a while before he seemed to have won the fight. “The moment I transformed, the truth was out. You should’ve seen the way you looked at me.”

At a measured pace, he walked back to the table, pulled another cigarette from the pack and lit it. John knew that he needed to say something now or it would be too late.

“Imagine my surprise when I realised I didn’t only want to protect you,” Sherlock muttered, seemingly composed again. “I wanted to save myself. But well, now you’ve got your answer. Happy?”

Only slowly, the things Sherlock had said were starting to make sense to John. “So you became human to push me away?” he asked and Sherlock huffed out a laugh.

“If you look back, you might find that there was no amount of pushing necessary.” Lost in thought, Sherlock took long pulls on the cigarette. “You couldn’t bear to touch me anymore,” he said. “Even when you were drunk, only _he_ was on your mind.”

John’s throat constricted and he swallowed against the lump, but he couldn’t bring himself to console Sherlock. Speaking about conveniently forgotten topics, one was missing.

“At least you didn’t need much time to get over your disappointing experience with me!” he spat. Sherlock just sat down and peeked through the microscope before scribbling something on a piece of paper.

“In contrast to you, I don’t take the first chance that presents itself,” he mumbled.

“I wouldn’t… I would have never…” John stuttered. Nothing would have happened with Samantha, would it?

“As I said,” Sherlock interjected, “it doesn’t matter anymore.”

 _Mycroft in perfection._ John stared at the man who pretended he was alone in the room. Two, three cigarettes long John tolerated the spectacle, drinking his tea and contemplating if it would do any good to continue the conversation, but in the end he gave up and went to the pub.

He briefly toyed with the idea of buying a beer before he decided for food. Fries and finger food weren’t exactly a treat, but they helped him to pass the time until his joints were becoming stiff on the bar stool and the broadcast of a track cycling championship could no longer provide at least a minimum amount of entertainment.

He ordered a tonic water, deciding that it would be his last drink. 11 pm. Hopefully Sherlock would be out or in his bedroom by now.

 _At least he’s not in the party guy’s bed,_ John thought and smiled to himself.

And what about the following morning? Go on with the accusations? Something had to change and showing Sherlock that he was wrong would be the first step.

 _He is wrong, isn’t he?_ John reconstructed the remark that had stung the most. _I really didn’t touch him, not at first._ Buried under the bewilderment and the loyalty he had thought to owe the dragon, it had been impossible to continue like before, but this didn’t mean there couldn’t be a development, could there? Sipping on the bitter beverage, John searched his mind for moments that belied Sherlock’s claim of purely hormonal intoxication.

 _If yesterday doesn’t count because I was drunk, then perhaps the incident on that scrapyard, when Sherlock was hurt?_ John thought. It had been bitter cold, but he couldn’t remember feeling anything apart from the desperation gripping him when Sherlock didn’t get up. _But that’s hardly proof. I’m a doctor above all._

John paid the barkeeper and walked out. _What about the way it had felt when he said my name?_ With the door of 221B in sight, John dismissed his search for evidence. He was already starting to think like Sherlock! Everything was always about mistrust and manipulation.

 _Bloody hell, it has to be enough that_ I _know that everything’s different from what he thinks!_ John toned down his irritation to avoid stomping upstairs to the flat, but it wasn’t quiet regardless. There was a noise... something regular, almost like music.

Opening the door and checking if the sounds were really coming from the flat, he followed them to Sherlock’s bedroom and there, the origin had to be. Was a stereo on? He hadn’t seen anything resembling one and the simple but beautiful tune was interrupted and restarted quite randomly.

John listened for a while, identifying the different speeds and accentuations. There could only be one explanation: Sherlock was playing the violin. And all the emotions that were barely recognisable on that inscrutable face suddenly appeared clear as the day in his music, all the sorrow and the pain he had hidden so effectively.

Making no noise, John climbed the stairs to his room. He smiled and shook his head. What a fool! _How could he ever think that I’d reject him?_ Be intimidated and threatened by him, irritated beyond measure perhaps – but push him away? Never.

 _So the human’s sceptical?_ John opened the top drawer of his bedside table to get out his earplugs. _Well, then give me a good night’s sleep and I’ll convince him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, sockeyhoccer, for staying by my side through all the madness!


	19. Chapter 19

At midday, John’s patience ran out. He cautiously inched towards Sherlock’s bedroom door, but when he was about to knock, he hesitated.

“What do you want?” Sherlock’s voice sounded from the other side.

John balled his hands to fists. _Shit!_ A noiseless approach was of course no match for Sherlock’s ears. He had definitely got used to the limited hearing of weak humans. Defeated, John opened the door. _What a great start._

He stepped inside, looking around, but contrary to the firm voice that had suggested Sherlock was already up – smoking with the window open or pacing the room – he was effectively lying in bed. The blanket was pulled over the dark curls, clearly showing how welcome John was.

“I have another pillow, if you want one,” John said. His eyes were drawn to the suits hanging on the window handle. Some were even scattered on the floor. “And you might want to get your wardrobe out of storage.”

There was just grunting from underneath the blanket.

“What?” John asked. A face appeared.

“Get out!” Sherlock snarled and rolled over. He shut his eyes fast, giving an unconvincing display of sleep.

“Ah, right,” John said. He navigated around a heap of shirts on the floor to position himself. “But I’ll make you breakfast. Or lunch, if you prefer that.”

“I don’t want either,” Sherlock growled with his eyes still closed.

“You see, there’s the crux,” John said. “I won’t go unless you join me.”

“I don’t care what you do,” Sherlock retorted. He turned to the other side again.

“Great,” John said and walked around the mattress until he faced Sherlock. “It won’t bother you that I continue with my little monologue, will it?” He made a dramatic pause. “Good, so let’s think about where to best place the wardrobe. Do you want to keep the bed where it is? Shall we ask for Mrs Hudson’s advice?”

That last question had Sherlock sit up like a shot. “God, John, what do you want?”

 _No T-shirt. So what’s under that blanket?_ “Do something useful,” John said before his thoughts could stray too far. “As you decided that this won’t include you in a bed, I have to make you get up.” John felt a blush manifesting but he ignored it. “So get up already.”

Sherlock glowered at him for a moment before he folded back the blanket, and John forced himself not to look away because it was obvious that Sherlock was just complying to make him uncomfortable. _As if it’s not enough that he’s naked,_ John thought despairingly when Sherlock stood up and walked to the window sill to get his cigarettes. _Just to spite me. How dare I give him orders?_

“Nice view,” John remarked, his voice a little less steady than he would have wished. “You want food with the tobacco?”

A good-natured smile and an unabashed once-over took away enough of Sherlock’s bravado to make him reach for a shirt on the hanger next to him. He nodded, frowning at the same time, but slipped into his clothes regardless.

“All right then,” John said whilst turning to go. His palms had got increasingly sweaty and he was sure he wouldn’t keep up his poker face for a minute longer.

 _Wonder what he would’ve done if I’d asked him to make room for me in his bed?_ John thought when he poured tea into the mugs. _After last night? Bite my head off, I guess._

Warily, he watched the now clad Sherlock enter and sit down at the table – only to hide behind the newspaper in an instant. So there would be a little reprieve, John hoped, and he was about to bite into his toast when rustling announced the end of the break.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Sherlock grumbled from behind the newspaper and John rolled his eyes.

“I’m impressed, detective Holmes,” he said. “Then you should also know that whatever you think of it, I won’t let us end up like you and your brother... with the icy silence and the accusations. So I’m setting things right, if you like it or not.”

The newspaper landed on the table, covering mugs and plates, and the long, questioning gaze Sherlock gave him was more than a little unnerving.

“So what’s our plan for today?” John asked before his irritation could get the better of his temper.

“ _Our_ plan?” Sherlock grunted. He ignored half the slice of toast John had retrieved from under the paper to extend to him.

“I don’t have to be at the hospital, so I’m coming with you.” John held the food under his nose. “Now eat.”

It seemed as if Sherlock only took the toast to have yet another reason to glower fiercely, so avoiding embarrassing silences didn’t work out after all, John reckoned. 

“Isn’t it helpful to get a different view?” he tried to appease Sherlock. “To have someone to stand watch? Tell you how brilliantly you solved a mystery?” _Bite back that smile all you want,_ he thought _. I’ve seen it._ “So, any new leads?” he continued unerringly.

 _Yeah, you want to resist, it’s written on your face._ Pinched lips. The eyes narrowed for a moment. But he couldn’t. He knew something and he was bursting with need to show his brilliance. _Human indeed. A bit of vanity suits you,_ John decided.

“Three,” Sherlock blurted out. “All of them companies which ordered larger quantities of Yttrium over the previous months. There are situated in different parts of the city, but all of them are close to the motorway.”

“And why couldn’t you narrow it down on one?” John asked and it was obvious that Sherlock didn’t like the question.

“I’m convinced it is the one in the east because they recently hired a technician from Romania,” Sherlock said quickly. “The company in the south has a fleet of the vans that fit our profile and the one in the west, well, they would just be close to the former hiding place, that’s all.”

“It’s that one,” John said, but Sherlock raised his eyebrows in doubt.

“That would be too easy,” he said.

“But my guts say it’s the third,” John maintained.

“Guts?”

“Yeah, gut feeling.” John threw Sherlock a suggestive look. “It’s sometimes more reliable than pure deduction.”

 _Okay, too much,_ John realised too late. Sherlock dropped the last piece of his toast on the newspaper and jumped up to march to the door.

“This will never work!” he ranted while getting into his coat. Hastily, John prepared to leave as well because giving Sherlock a head start was as good as losing him.

Before he followed the billowing coat downstairs, John glanced at the words at the wallpaper. _You said you’d try,_ they reminded him.

“Hell, I will,” John mumbled under his breath. He heard Mrs Hudson’s voice from downstairs, so Sherlock’s advance was hopefully stopped for a second.

“Where are you going?” she asked when John reached the hallway.

“East,” Sherlock answered gruffly, impatiently shuffling on his feet.

“You’re taking a taxi, aren’t you?” she asked. “Could you drop me off near Oxford Street?”

“Of course we can,” John said. He let Mrs Hudson link arms with him and they followed Sherlock outside. A cab was already complying with his energetic waving and because Mrs Hudson would get out first, Sherlock climbed in and John plunked into the seat next to him.

“So, Sherlock, you’re off to have lunch with some of your friends?” Mrs Hudson chirped after a while, eliciting a derisive snort in Sherlock.

“Nah, we’re investigating some bad guys,” John explained.

“Are you?” She sounded worried. “But I hope you’re not putting yourself in danger. Especially you, John, you should really–”

“John can look out for himself,” Sherlock grunted. “And I think if you get off here, Mrs Hudson, it’s not far to walk and we don’t have to make such a considerable detour.” He leaned forwards. “Driver? Stop please.”

Before John could protest, Mrs Hudson had already left the car and it was impossible to understand what she had been muttering as a reply. The way she slammed the door shut was quite telling though.

“You’re such an arse,” John stated. “Why did she get the short end of the stick just now?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, preferring his usual stony silence, but he didn’t seem to be entirely comfortable as well. This time, John was sure the reason was not Mrs Hudson’s remark.

“There’s enough space in this backseat,” Sherlock said at last, confirming John’s suspicions. Remaining in his place next to Sherlock, their arms and thighs touching had paid off.

“I don’t want to endanger my safety by unfastening the seat belt,” John declared. He peered to his right and then had to pinch his lips to keep himself from grinning. “Cosy, isn’t it?” he asked and moved closer. Not really trying to hide it, he breathed in deeply.

“Stop doing that!” Sherlock barked.

As innocently as he could, John first answered with a look. “What?” he asked after a moment of withstanding Sherlock’s furious scrutiny.

“All of this!” Sherlock said through clenched teeth and dutifully, John unfastened the seat belt to move to the other end of the seat.

“Better?” he asked, continuing the gaze he had upheld the entire time.

“No!” Sherlock snapped.

“I’m not allowed to _look?_ ” John raised his eyebrows. “Really? Conversations are going to be hard work if _that’s_ forbidden _too_.”

“But not like _that_.”

Was there a hint of exasperation in the voice that was so controlled all the time? _He’s cracking,_ John thought, suppressing his glee so it wouldn’t show. He cleared his throat.

“You mean like I think that you’re incredibly handsome?” he asked and incredulousness flashed up on Sherlock’s face for the briefest of moments.

“Yes.” Sherlock barely got the word out.

“I’ll do my best,” John declared with as much phoney sincerity as he could muster. At an obvious loss what to do, Sherlock inhaled and turned away to look straight on for the rest of the ride.

 _Give him some rest,_ John ordered himself. _Better catch him unawares._

They eventually arrived at a small production site, cherry laurel providing the functional building with an almost elegant appearance, as precisely as it was pruned.

“This is supposed to be Moriarty’s secret lair?” John asked when they approached the driveway on foot.

“Hiding behind the façade of a small business enterprise makes perfect sense,” Sherlock answered and John shook his head but remained silent. “You go inside and pose as a possible customer and I’ll have a look at the production area,” Sherlock continued. Before he could disappear, John grabbed his sleeve.

“What the hell are they producing?” he hissed.

“Electronic filters for microwaves,” were the last words he heard and then Sherlock wrenched himself free and squeezed between wall and shrubbery.

 _Great_ , John scoffed inside, and his irritation grew exponentially over the next hour when he pretended to be interested in a large shipment of filters, and the tremendously helpful and sympathetic head of the family business eagerly explained the details of their contract. John’s guilty conscience upon disappointing the man made itself felt when he met Sherlock in the entrance of a neighbouring house afterwards.

“How long have you been out here?” he snarled. “I could have stopped bargaining with that poor guy half an hour ago, right?”

“Thirty five minutes,” Sherlock remarked coolly.

“And I bet it was a total failure!”

 _Gotcha!_ John thought when Sherlock scrunched up his nose. And now it was time for the final blow. Dismissing his anger, John beamed a smile at Sherlock that would hopefully throw him off guard again. “Ah, don’t worry,” he said. “Still two to go.”

“Don’t do that!” Sherlock snapped and satisfied, John watched him turn on his heels to hunt down a cab.

“And I said I’d try my best,” John assured him when they climbed into the car. The small smile on Sherlock’s lips made it clear that the game would be over soon. No one, not even Sherlock, could be that pig-headed, John decided. _I haven’t lost my touch after all._

And then? What would happen when Sherlock gave in at last? John’s fingertips remembered the almost hairless chest and the hurried travels over the back and what the trousers revealed of the arse, but that was pretty much it.

Leaning back in the seat, John took in Sherlock’s profile. The street lights that had been switched on in the meanwhile drew irregular patterns on the face, accentuating the features even more. How was it possible that a man looked so feminine and radiated so much masculinity at the same time? And those eyes… how could they have such a clear blue aside from the green specks? Even in a bad light like now?

 _Oh fuck!_ John mentally shook himself awake, adamant on keeping calm although the eyes he had been envisioning were in fact staring at him. He shrugged and shook his head. “Sorry, can’t help it.”

“It’s getting worse,” Sherlock remarked.

John laughed out loud. “Good deduction.”

The cab stopped and when Sherlock joined him on the pavement, John couldn’t shake the impression that on their short walk to a fenced area, there was an unusual closeness, which had them frequently bumping into each other.

 _Say something! Grab his coat and initiate a kiss! Anything!_ John spurred himself on. He was still debating with himself when Sherlock stopped and got out his picklocks.

“Damn it, Sherlock, it’s not that late in the day,” John whispered. “Someone might see us.” He had just finished the sentence when he was being pulled through a crack in the gate. They crept from one of the large trees to the other and John felt like he was attempting to play hide and seek when suddenly, a shadow turned around the building’s corner.

“There’s someone!” John hissed. The shadow was too small to be a person though, unless… “Shit, a dog!”

One step in the opposite direction and then John’s flight was cut short. He almost fell over, but Sherlock clutched him tightly.

“Stay behind me!” Sherlock shouted and a glance at the dog speeding towards them convinced John that there was no use in trying to escape anyway. _Why didn’t I take my fucking gun?_

A loud bark announced the massive body that would collide with them in a second but without any warning, another deep growl sounded through the darkness. John heard a whimper and the growl intensified, its vibrations now clearly indicating its origin.

“Is that you, Sherlock?” John asked. He risked a look at cowering dog which remained on the ground for a moment before it took off as fast as it could. Tension seeped from John’s body.

“Alpha dog, remember?” Sherlock said without turning back. He aimed for a door and busied himself with it while John ambled towards him.

 _Get a grip,_ he admonished himself. It wasn’t exactly the best idea to jump one’s flatmates bones in a fenced compound with a watchdog. But God, that casual remark… Sherlock must have known exactly what he would unleash with it. _He’s turning the tables!_ The thought made John almost giddy, but he was distracted by a light that started flashing when he arrived at the door at last.

“What does that thing mean?” he asked Sherlock, who didn’t seem to be worried and entered the building. “It’s not an alarm, is it?”

“I guess we’ve got around five minutes until security shows up,” Sherlock said calmly and John froze.

“What?” he shouted, but Sherlock had already become a mere shadow halfway down the hallway.

 _Oh you…!_ Frantically, John opened doors to offices full of files and a large hall full of machines. And pipes. Carriage loads of pipes!

“John! We have to leave!” he heard. The familiar dark shadow passed the door to the hall and John blindly ran after it. Following its lead proved difficult though, but Sherlock pulled John up a tree and along a thick branch before shoving him down again, over the fence surrounding the compound.

“Bloody hell!” John swore the moment he had the street’s tarmac under his feet. Slowly, the adrenaline in his system was levelling out.

“At least we now know that this is the wrong place as well,” Sherlock declared, directing his steps towards the main street.

“Is it?” John scoffed. “I would’ve never guessed.”

“They are producing heat resistant pipes,” Sherlock informed him, unsuccessfully suppressing a grin. “Your gut feeling has something to it,” he admitted. “Besides, it would be boring if I was always right, wouldn’t it?”

He automatically raised his hand for the cab, but quirked an insecure smile at John at the same time – as if his mind was feeding his body with opposing information – and John decided this was enough of a sign. His fingers were already reaching out for Sherlock’s collar when a car stopped at the kerb with screeching tires.

“Are you something like a cab magnet?” John sighed.

“I’m irresistible, it seems,” Sherlock said, suggestively raising an eyebrow. “Or would you object?”

He disappeared into the car and John gave a silent scream of frustration. Only the fact that once the driver accelerated, Sherlock shifted so they sat as close as when they had left Baker Street reduced John’s edginess.

“We have to be very careful with the next one,” Sherlock whispered.

“How can you be sure it’s… our target’s?” John asked.

“You said it yourself, didn’t you?” Sherlock’s fingers executed a strange ballet, folding and kneading in an attempt to get rid of excess energy. “And I repeat: Be careful, do you hear me?”

“God, Sherlock, now _you_ sound like Mrs Hudson,” John retorted and flinched when one of the hands he had been watching shot out and clutched his upper arm.

“And she was right!” Sherlock hissed. John could feel the puff of breath on his ear. “You’re in danger, John. I can’t protect you from everything! It just takes a stray bullet and...” His voice faltered.

John smiled to himself. He had been wrong about the moment before they got into the cab. _This_ here was what he had been waiting for.

“I promise you, I’ll take care,” he said and the iron grip on his arm disappeared. The fingers joined their counterparts in Sherlock’s lap again, this time in a less brutal regimen of movements, and briefly, John considered clasping them to give them some rest.

 _Not the place,_ he decided. And it didn’t matter. There would be enough opportunities from now on.   Excitement tickled a pleasing path down John’s spine at the thought and he was sure that Sherlock could hear his heart beating even though he wasn’t in his dragon form. Only their arrival at their destination calmed John down a little and the walk to the two-floor building brought back his concentration. 

“Don’t you think it’s strange that there are no guards?” John whispered when Sherlock was about to pick the lock of the main door.

“Hm,” Sherlock agreed and nodded. He motioned John to follow him upstairs and regardless of how carefully John searched the walls and ceilings, there was no trace of cameras or any other surveillance measures.

 _This is either the completely wrong place or we’re walking right into a trap,_ he thought, but followed Sherlock through the only door in the upper floor’s hallway. Suppressing his sense of foreboding, John searched the room with his torch and already the first few glimpses proved that they found what they had been looking for.

Purposefully, John walked towards one of the machines he recognised from the warehouse. “Sherlock, I…” He stopped. Something had felt odd under his foot – as if the floor had given way. “What is…?”

Peripherally, he heard a strange noise, a whirring of some sort, but his mind didn’t have time to process it because the next thing he knew was a large body slamming into his, knocking the air out of him before a loud bang and incredible heat did the same. John squeezed his eyes shut, and not a moment too soon as shards exploded around him.

Burning air and freezing cold mingled when John’s sense of orientation ceased to work, but his initial alarm at being hurled through the air evaporated the second he processed who was clutching him so violently. But there was no fierce flapping of the wings, just uncontrolled falling, and when the body under him hit the ground, effectively cushioning the hard impact, John’s first reaction was to frantically feel for injuries.

“Sherlock! Are you all right!” he cried. The legs that had kept him in place let go and John straightened to assess the situation. Shooting out of the window and protecting him from the fire must have made it impossible for the dragon to open his wings.

Another heavy explosion shook the ground and the world became dark when the wings enfolded John, protecting him from flying debris. Only slowly, the noise died down and John knew he should move. Get away from the burning building. Make sure Sherlock was unhurt.

 _But Sherlock’s fine,_ flitted through his head. _And hell, I’m more than fine!_

The bulge straining against him, as well as his own instant reaction were unmistakeable proof that the scenario he had envisioned in the guard dog compound needed to become reality.

“Baker Street,” was all John could get out and he felt his body being clutched again. Sherlock rose, strong beats of the wings carrying them to freezing heights until a steep descent began. His hands and feet turning to blocks of ice and his head aching, John breathed as shallowly as possible, but his perception of the surroundings only admitted the deadly cold. The entire rest of his swirling mind was occupied by random impressions of the previous weeks.

Skin, scales – it didn’t matter what his memories conjured up, the images put John in such excitement that when his feet made contact with the cobblestones, he felt like a cluster of raving need.

“Upstairs!” John rasped. His hands automatically reached for the keys. _Just get inside._ Stairs. Another door. _Sherlock would follow, and damn, why are those fingers so stiff?_ Clumsily, he zipped open his jacket.

In the living room, John blinked to get his bearings. Bedroom! He needed a bed now or the rug would have to do, and stumbling forwards, he unbuttoned and shed his shirt on the way. When he entered Sherlock’s room, he heard the entrance door slam shut.

“Over here!” John shouted and the sleek dragon stormed through the door. _The dragon!_ John’s mind warned him, but he had already managed to get out of his T-shirt when the information reached the rational part of his brain.

 _Damn the form!_ The dragon’s tongue directly enveloped John’s cock when he finally got rid of all of his clothes. “Fuck, yes!” John blurted out and the elastic grip tightened. Feeling his legs buckle, he searched for support, but the wall was too far away. “Please... the bed!” he gasped.

The tongue let go and John dropped on the mattress where he waited for another onslaught. Bewildered, he saw the green eyes fixing him with their gaze, and slowly, very slowly the dragon approached. The mattress dipped when the claws sank in and the dark mass crouching over him blocked the living room light shining through the door.

“Predator, sure, I get it,” John breathed. A long canine was revealed and John reached out, feeling the sharp tooth below the soft snout. He let his hands travel along the nose and the elevations around the eyes before he gave the shimmering forehead some attention. “But I also know what _you_ like.”

Mesmerised, he saw the dragon writhe in pleasure when he tickled a path along the top of the head and the strong neck, but then John’s fingers pursued their own goals and impatiently remapped all the other expanses of scales they could reach.

“Move up,” John hissed. A growl welcomed his hands when they grabbed the bumpy hardness and in an instant the infectious urgency was back. Sherlock pushed into the fingers and pressed them into John’s stomach, and it seemed as if he wanted to ensure that some of the delicious friction rubbed off on John’s neglected cock.

“Sherlock!” John shouted at a shift of weight because all of a sudden, his erection was clasped by tight heat, but the dragon just sat up and impaled himself completely. Taking gulps of air, John tried to adjust his nervous system to the overload of sensations. “Please… too fast. I can’t...” he panted.

The green eyes narrowed and Sherlock swooped down. John felt claws on his back when he was clutched like before in flight, but now he was rolled over. Disoriented, he paused for a moment, settling into his new position with some difficulty while watching Sherlock bend forwards to wriggle his tongue around the dark red phallus.

“Bugger… you’re quite a sight,” John gasped. Thankful that he didn’t have other obligations to take care of, he just held on to the strong legs that had parted for him so willingly. Sinking into the tight heat was all he had to focus on, as slow as he could bear it and without going into a tailspin.

 _Smarts… but good…_ John dug his fingers into the scales and balanced on the fine line between lust and control until a distinct growl woke him, alerting him to what he already felt in the velvety channel. Quickly, he encircled the dragon’s penis, feeling the tongue slither away under his hands. He gritted his teeth to keep back his own need when Sherlock came, roaring out his pleasure, but the second the thrashing and pumping ceased, John let go of the phallus.

 _More friction._ The promise of release had been so near all the time and relieved John let his desire seize authority. Frantically shoving into the heat, he slumped forwards to rest his forehead on the supple scales of Sherlock’s solar plexus. His hands sought hold in the bed sheets.

“Yes!” John moaned when his world narrowed to the tip of his cock. He closed his eyes when his orgasm rocked his system, his glans sending shockwaves from its bath in silky smooth friction. Too good. So tight… and tighter still...

“Oh God,” John gasped and ripped his eyes open. Helplessly jerking and obeying his climax, he couldn’t stop, not even with the pale human skin directly in front of his eyes. _Not now!_ his mind screamed, but he pushed on into the pliable flesh that felt so inviting – so perfect.

When his body’s drive subsided gradually, John tried to gather a sensible thought, and the slow up and down of Sherlock’s breathing centred him to a degree. _Say something!_ he ordered himself, but no words seemed to fit. Slipping out and propping himself up could be done without meeting the other man’s gaze, but when their eyes finally locked, John knew he had hesitated for too long.

Sherlock’s already stricken look became outright furious and conveyed the words John remembered so well: _It’s only_ him _you want!_

“No, Sherlock, don’t…” John tried, but dutifully accepted Sherlock’s flight as an answer. Only when he heard the bathroom door slam shut, John punched the mattress to give the anger that was flaring up an outlet. _Damn those dragons and their volatile natures!_ Warily, he got up. _All right then, next try._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much, sockeyhoccer, for putting up with me :)


	20. Chapter 20

John threw on Sherlock’s dressing gown revelling in its softness for a moment. _At least I feel comfortable while looking absolutely ridiculous,_ he thought to himself. The satin flicked around his ankles as he left the room to listen to the sounds of the shower.

 _How much more time does he need to wash me off?_ The water had been running for almost twenty minutes now, but just as John was about to knock, the door opened and Sherlock strode out, pushing him aside.

“Sherlock, wait, I…” John started before the bedroom door shut in his face. “Idiot.” he muttered. Briefly he considered showering, but then just had a quick wash-up with a flannel. Sherlock might leave the flat any minute now. Listening intently, John noted that there were still noises from within the bedroom and he hurried upstairs to dress as quickly as he could. Yet as he had anticipated, Sherlock was already on his way out as John hurried down the stairs to the living room.

“Come on, Sherlock. This is getting old!” he scolded. Slipping into his coat, he prepared to follow him, but Sherlock thrust an arm in his path. 

“Stay here,” he growled.

“That’s still _my_ decision,” John stated as he tried to walk past him.

Sherlock stepped in his way. “Give me your mobile,” he ordered John who automatically fished it from his pocket and handed it over.

“Why?” he asked before Sherlock wordlessly threw it on the floor and then stamped on it vigorously. “Sherlock! What the…Are you crazy?” John shouted.

 _Obviously,_ he thought to himself when Sherlock turned and headed for the door. Stumbling after him, John nevertheless came to sudden standstill when Sherlock halted on the lower flight of stairs.

“You were right, I’m ready!” Sherlock shouted towards a corner of the hallway and then continued dashing down the stairs. Bewildered, John looked up as well, but didn’t see anything unusual.

“Were you speaking to me?” he asked, taking up his pursuit again because Sherlock had stepped out of the house. “Sherlock, wait!”

The fact that Sherlock sprinted down the street clearly conveyed the message that waiting was not on his agenda. He didn’t even halt to check a message he received and afterwards threw his mobile down a storm drain.

Increasingly out of breath, John raced after him, turning corners and dashing through alleys for what felt like miles. It almost seemed as if Sherlock wanted to escape from someone.

 _He won’t have any luck with me,_ John thought grimly, although after leaping over gates and running through backyards, carparks, pedestrian subways and even a restaurant, sweat was already collecting on his forehead. His chest hurt, but his determination to keep up with Sherlock spurred him on.

“Wait! Please!” he gasped. No reaction. Sherlock just ducked into a narrow side street. Desperate, John grabbed at the coat’s sleeve, but Sherlock wrenched himself free and continued running.

 _Plan. I need a plan, a possibility to… scaffolding!_ John rejoiced inwardly. Without hesitation, he clutched Sherlock’s arm again and then used his entire body weight to pivot the rest of the man between two steel poles. Holding on to the coat with the other hand, he braced himself against Sherlock’s attempts to shove him back – now that the other escape route was blocked by a security fence. “I said stop!” John commanded.

“Get out of my way!” Sherlock shouted. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

“But we need to talk!” John retorted and Sherlock narrowed his eyes to slits.

“You don’t want to talk to _me_! I’m not _him_!” He pushed against John who withstood the force as well as he could.

“But you _are_! It’s just that… I…” Thankful that Sherlock had stopped the rather undignified tussle they were engaging in, John still couldn’t think of a good argument – not when all his brain demanded was more oxygen. “He _is_ you, damn it! You’re not two separate beings!”

“God John, how can you be so deluded?” Sherlock asked, stepping away as much as John’s firm grip allowed.

“Because I don’t get it!” John cried. “How can you be stuck in such a bloody one-track mindset?”

“I’m not stuck in this way of thinking. I’m stuck in this _life_!” Sherlock snarled. “And it’s hopeless, don’t you see?”

“Why? God, Sherlock, give me something so that I understand!” John pleaded.

“That’s the point! You have no idea what it means to live like that!” Sherlock shouted, but then his expression became downcast. “Mycroft and I… we weren’t like the others. We already felt like a different species before it became clear that I was a dragon.”

John practically felt the opposition oozing away. His hands met no resistance anymore, so he loosened his grip on Sherlock’s coat, smoothing the lapel idly with one hand.

“There was no escape,” Sherlock continued dejectedly. “I would stay lonely.”

“What are you talking about?” John asked. “You have a ton of friends!”

“Mycroft and I don’t associate with people, John,” Sherlock said. “People include us in their circles because of… _reasons_.”

John thought for a moment. “They feel safer having you on their side,” he explained, more to himself. “And Mrs Hudson?”

“Old-fashioned manners and gratitude, nothing else,” Sherlock dismissed him.

“And what about me?” John insisted.

“You’re deceiving yourself.” Sherlock compressed his lips and directed his eyes to the ground. “Or I have,” he added quietly.

“Rubbish!” John snarled. “I knew who you were from the beginning and yes, it took me some time to adjust to the human. But I need _both_ of you!”

Sherlock’s defiant glare at the pavement gave John a sinking feeling. “No, you don’t,” Sherlock stated, and then almost choked on a laugh. “But it’s quite ironic that I thought no one would ever appreciate the dragon. Now it seems it’s the _only_ form that will ever receive something real.”

“Stop saying that!” John pleaded and clutched the lapel of Sherlock’s coat again. “Look at me! You have to let go of the past because this, what we have, is new, it’s different!” He inhaled, meeting the forbidding eyes with the same amount of fierceness. “For both of us, Sherlock. And I will beg and fight or do whatever is necessary to make you see reason. But you also have to dare to live your life again!”

John quailed when Sherlock looked at him, his gaze flickering over John the way Mycroft would, mercilessly scrutinising his opposite to categorise his qualities and weaknesses.

 _Like I’m nothing but a strange specimen,_ flitted through John’s head. “Don’t...” _find me lacking,_ he begged inwardly. John felt his blood pumping through his veins, and his fingers clenched more firmly around the woollen cloth. “Please...”

“Please what?” Sherlock growled.

“Just... decide.” John gently tugged at the coat and risked a small smile that wasn’t returned. “This is better than what you expected life to be. I promise.”

“That’s easy to say,” Sherlock scoffed.

“But I have proof.” The self-confident grin John tried out turned Sherlock’s dark look into a curious frown at last. “All you have to do is find it,” John said. “Go on. _Investigate_.”

The split second of incredulity on Sherlock’s face was followed by a spark of green in the irises. It lit up before it was hidden as Sherlock’s eyes closed and he swooped down as if he had transformed, clutching John even firmer than with his claws. Yet those sensations were wiped out the moment Sherlock’s soft lips melded with John’s – with the most tentative of touches at first, only to be followed by insistent beckoning for more contact.

Effortlessly, John opened his mouth and let Sherlock’s tongue slip through his lips, welcoming it greedily. One of his hands found its way into the curly hair, and he needed more of the softness and also more of the strength, yet Sherlock pulled back at little.

“Why didn’t we do this earlier?” he mumbled against John’s lips and pushed him backwards into the fence. John dug his fingers into the nape and forced Sherlock’s mouth back onto his.

“…was a bit baffled,” John murmured when he needed to gasp for air. “Finding myself climaxing in a different body than I just fucked? What the hell did you expect?”

Sherlock grunted as his hands wandered up and down John’s back. Insistently he pulled their bodies together, even stopping the kiss to ensure that every other square inch that could touch did so.

“ _Yes_ ,” John hissed, eagerly accepting the offer of more friction. “How about you work your magic… get us a cab home,” he panted.

“There was a camera in the hallway,” Sherlock whispered while he was sniffing a path through John’s hair and pressing kisses under John’s ear. “The dragon realised it was there.”

“Mycroft?” John gritted out and the name caused Sherlock to jerk away – only to directly resume the kiss, making John forget he had asked for anything.

“No,” was all Sherlock uttered before tugging John’s coat open and snaking a hand underneath. John was lost in sensation, Sherlock’s fingers and tongue providing so much distraction that his brain couldn’t keep up any more. It just registered that he was missing something important, something so crucial that eventually, John pulled away.

 “That’s why you were running?” he gasped. “To flee?”

Sherlock avoided John’s eyes, licking up his throat before pressing hot, wet kisses along his jaw and his mouth, clearly intent on wreaking havoc with John’s concentration.

“Sherlock... what did you do?” John whispered.

“Moved towards the meeting point,” Sherlock mumbled. “And got rid of Mycroft’s watchdogs – but sadly not you.”

Sherlock used John’s imminent protest to map yet another part of his mouth and the second John gave in to temptation, he knew that he had made a mistake. A shrill hissing sound pierced the air and smoke surrounded them almost simultaneously. John didn’t even have time enough to acknowledge the fact that a car had stopped nearby when Sherlock suddenly staggered. Grappling for more leverage, John nevertheless couldn’t keep Sherlock from slumping to the ground, dragging John to his knees as he tried to support his weight.

“Sherlock! Get up!” he shouted, coughing from the grey smoke. It was so thick that John couldn’t tell if there were any attackers approaching and he frantically pulled at Sherlock, trying to wake him or move him out of the danger zone.

“Sherlock, please! We have to...!” He winced when his neck flared with pain. Groping at his nape, John tried to get up and lash out because his attacker had to be somewhere behind him, but he found himself swaying dizzily instead, his knees giving way. His hands hit the concrete and another explosion of pain in his neck left him completely disoriented, making him slump to the ground when the power of the blow overwhelmed him.  “Sherlock! Run…!” he rasped before everything went black.

 

****

 

John slowly opened his eyes, squinting carefully, but the white light piercing through the slits was too bright regardless and his stomach roiled as he flinched from the bright light. The terrible headache could be a reason for the serious discomfort he was feeling.

_Concussion? Most likely._

His shoulder was in pain as well, hurting as much as his wrists and neck.

 _And why am I… upright?_ Slowly his mind worked out what was going on. I’m tied to a chair? He raised his head, causing his neck muscles to spasm. He tentatively tried to shift his arms and legs. Legs, arms – nothing could be moved, and in a sudden fit of panic, John found himself wide awake. He blinked, trying to focus on the white squares in front of his eyes.

 _A tiled wall. Perhaps a cellar?_ Shifting slightly in the chair – _too sturdy, it won’t break if I tipped it over_ – while his eyes wandered up the wall, he pieced together the impressions. The tiles, the windowless walls and the faint scent of chlorine – he was inside an empty swimming pool.

Gazed flicking across the pool he saw two men positioned by the steps leading out of the pool with their rifles trained down at something, but at what? John turned his head a little ignoring the spike of pain from the movement and saw a seemingly lifeless heap on the floor some yards away from the gunmen.

“Sherlock!” John hissed. The men at the pool’s rim were proof enough that there was someone very much alive to watch. “Sherlock! Are you awake?”

A clicking noise made him hectically look back at the gunmen, but the footsteps were coming from the side where the steps were. A dark-haired man about Sherlock’s age appeared at the rim, pausing as he gazed down into the pool before strolling down the steps towards John, hands casually tucked into his pockets. John desperately tried to match the man’s face, yet came up blank.

“Finally! All you did was sleep, sleep, sleep. _Boring_!” the man said and John compressed his lips. He knew that lilting voice. He remembered it vividly from the warehouse.

“It can’t be you,” John declared, piecing together some of the information he had overheard. He just hoped he was right about this. “You’re under surveillance.”

Not shaken in the least that he had been identified without getting a grand reveal first, the man sauntered down the pool, idly tapping his fingers along the wall.

“I’m afraid her Majesty’s secret service doesn’t watch as closely as they should,” he said with a grin. “Believe it or not, they fell for an impersonator. In their defence, the similarity is striking though. Took three operations, by the way.” He leaned his shoulder into the wall, grinning even wider.

John jerked his head at Sherlock’s unmoving form. “What did you do to him?” he snarled.

“Now, now. Watch your tone, precious. I just gave him the favour he demanded,” Moriarty answered and added: “Again.”

“Bollocks!” John shouted, and needed a moment to pull himself together.

“Aaaw. He didn’t tell you?” Moriarty shook his head as he pulled a sad face. “Tsk, and here I thought you two were so close by now.”

John bit back an answer.

“Must still be quite a strong connection between the two brothers, right? So Sherlock didn’t see the necessity to let you into this secret… or maybe he didn’t feel a strong connection to _you_?” Moriarty went on with a raised eyebrow. Leisurely, he approached John until he was merely a yard away. “You’re burning to know it, aren’t you? And those two were too caught up in their old dynamic. They didn’t realise how much they wronged you by shutting you out.”

The mock understanding resonating in the voice grated on John’s nerves, but he forcefully relaxed his muscles before what his restraints cut into his skin. “I trust Sherlock,” he declared defiantly.

“Of course you do.” Moriarty inclined his head. “Just like he trusted Mycroft. And look what good that did him.” He briefly ran his gaze over the figure lying on the floor. “But on the other hand, it’s been a pleasure to see Mycroft castigating himself for what he allowed to happen.”

Refusing to take the bait, John remained silent. Moriarty didn’t seem to notice anyway as he paced in circles, seemingly deep in thought.

“Let me tell you a story, John. I love a good story, don’t you? It’s the best kind too – with desperation, greed and guilt,” he lectured the wall. “You know the ending – All of us, gathered here at the bottom of an empty swimming pool – so let’s go back in time, shall we?”

The cheery expression Moriarty adopted suggested he really wanted an answer, but he continued before John had the chance of telling him to fuck off.

“There was once a young man, let’s call him Sherlock for convenience’s sake,” Moriarty purred. “And he was deeply unsettled by the fact that the older he became, the more he realised that no one would ever love him – except for his older brother. Alike in the outstanding faculties of their minds and the abrasive natures of their spirits, they set out to explore the world. But whereas the older one found his place, the younger brother never connected with anything or anyone.”

Against his will, John listened attentively.

“Because this brother was special,” Moriarty said. “He had a secret he shared with only a couple of thousand others in the world. So he was not only lost and troubled, oh no… he was also immensely _valuable_. And this is where the elder brother’s only weakness came into play.”

John realised that he must have given away a reaction because Moriarty’s face lit up with glee. It doesn’t matter, John reassured himself. As long as he keeps talking.

“Oh yes, the almighty Mycroft has a weakness. And, quite sadly, it’s not his devotion to his brother,” Moriarty explained, pulling a tragic face. “No, as we all know, it’s his love of power.”

“What rot!” John blurted out. The elder Holmes had always come to Sherlock’s rescue when it was possible, hadn’t he? Unbidden, the aggressive conversation between the two brothers surfaced again. Mycroft had been more than a little unsettled by the possibility that the secret they had been keeping would leak out.

“But you know it’s true,” Moriarty said as though he had been reading John’s mind. He leaned forward with his hands resting heavily on John’s shoulders. “I clearly remember Mycroft’s eagerness when he was introduced to me. Being included in such a top secret government programme meant that he had finally reached the ranks he had dreamed of. It didn’t take much convincing to persuade him to sell out his little brother to further his own career.”

John bit his tongue, looking away. Moriarty was right. The scenario was more believable than John was willing to admit.

“But you wanted it too, didn’t you?” Moriarty said, and John’s eyes jerked back in irritation thinking he was being addressed. However, he realised that Moriarty was seeing through, or rather past, him. “To join the programme, find a cure to get rid of the dragon.”

John turned his head. The figure on the floor was stirring. Groaning, Sherlock slowly sat up and leaned against the wall, head in his hands.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he rasped. “I was merely curious.”

“A little more than just curious,” Moriarty retorted. “No dragon would have ever severed its connection to the others to be free for experiments for curiosity!” A proud smile adorned his face. “You sensed that I knew what I was doing – that I was a scientific prodigy above all! Oh, and your astonishment when it became clear that I could already switch off the automatic transformation!”

Sherlock stood up, slightly unsteady on his legs. Groggily, he leaned into the wall and John was itching to help him. Without any success, he strained against his bonds, but at the same time his mind raced. There had been experiments. On a dragon! No wonder Mycroft was so afraid this would come to light! Rumour had it that key positions of the U.K’s government were held by dragons, so this wouldn’t have ended well. And apart from that, the international outrage would have been tremendous and the country’s reputation would have been damaged for decades!

“It still hasn’t come back entirely, has it?” Moriarty smirked, directing John’s thoughts to the actual topic again. Sherlock omitted part of the truth when he said he could control the dragon’s response better than others, crossed his mind. So, sustaining the injury in the scrapyard hadn’t been a conscious decision.

Moriarty strolled around John, slowly dragging his fingertips across the doctor’s shoulders before positioning himself in front of John again. Distantly John heard Sherlock growling. “You have taken on quite a task, little soldier. He’s not easy to handle, our precious dragon.” He leaned in close and whispered in John’s ear. “In the past, I worried about him terribly, because I honestly couldn’t shake the impression that the only reason he wanted to shed the dragon was to end his life entirely. And what a waste that would have been.”

“He wouldn’t–!” John started and Moriarty raised his hand imperatively.

“Oh, you’re probably right,” he interjected. “It was most likely all about the fun. All those beautiful drugs he was suddenly able to do. They would’ve instantly killed off an ordinary human.”

“Fun,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Yeah, what would you know about that?” Moriarty admitted. “You’re a Holmes after all. You and your brother are so much alike sometimes.” His expression became challenging. “Mmm, after establishing that, could we perhaps agree on the fact that from the beginning on, everything was about control?”

John hoped that Sherlock would at least shake his head, but there was no reaction.

“Just as I thought,” Moriarty said. “Back then you would have done anything for it… and still do.”

John didn’t like the knowing grin at all, but he hated the looks Moriarty and Sherlock exchanged even more. A very queasy feeling gripped him.

“I won’t let you kill me,” Sherlock said, to John’s relief. “Once is enough.”

“I almost killed you” Moriarty corrected him. “But I’ve made great advances since then.” He raised his head to motion at the men positioned at the rim. “The anaesthetic is quite a handy thing. There’s no need for it though – if you cooperate. You could become part of a bigger project–”

“To further your aims,” Sherlock barked.

“And yours,” Moriarty silenced him. “You wanted to get rid of the dragon so much that you even fought it when it wanted to save your life! And what about achieving your aims? How much progress have you made in the meantime?”

Sherlock’s eyes briefly darted to John but returned to Moriarty, who doubled over in almost hysterical laughter.

“Oh, him? Sherlock! Are you really sure?” he shrieked.

“Don’t believe him!” John shouted when Sherlock’s expression froze. “I meant what I said!”

“Hush, Doctor.” Moriarty opened his jacket to let John have a look at the weapon in his waistband. John fell silent. “This is not your cue yet.” He straightened again. “Where were we? Well, Sherlock, what you should know is that I’m close to deactivating the genes,” he explained. “With your help, I could do it. You would have a normal life.”

The two men’s eyes locked again as they silently communicated and John felt like he was in a room with Sherlock and Mycroft, reduced to being an onlooker of a world he couldn’t participate in.

“I don’t need a normal life,” Sherlock stated. “Extraordinary is acceptable.”

Moriarty sighed. “Well, if that’s your last word, then only the less civilised solution remains.” He reached into his jacket and John instinctively flinched away before the weapon was pointed at his face. There wasn’t much room to manoeuvre though, bound tightly to the chair as he was. “I wanted to avoid this, but time is scarce and I think a combination of the anaesthetic and subtle threats to the life of your... pet here will have the same effect.” Closing the gap, Moriarty rested the barrel of the gun on John’s forehead. “So, this is the last chance to give in and cooperate voluntarily. Think about it! Being in control of your transformation, even suppressing it completely!”

But who would gain anything in this case except Sherlock? Crossed John’s mind. And Moriarty? Did he just want to satisfy his scientific curiosity? But what if…?

“Bullshit, you want to be in control of the genes!” John shouted. “Switching them on as _you_ wish! Just imagine, turning all your cronies into dragons at your command!”

For the first time, Moriarty appeared to be at a loss what to reply. The fleeting insecurity at being caught out was quickly replaced by something else though, something that made John tense up completely. The madman was obviously taking over from the scientist.

“Don’t overrate your usefulness, Doctor,” Moriarty hissed and pressed the gun into John’s temple a little harder. “I can think of an illustrious group of other people to substitute you with, you know? Starting with Mrs Hudson… the brother–”

“No!” John heard Sherlock roar. He whipped his head around and still only saw the last stage of the transformation, the wings growing from the back like bursting buds. Yet Sherlock had not completely risen from the ground when shots were fired and the hissing of gas cartridges and clouds of smoke filled the air.

“Sherlock!” John heard a dull thud, so the dragon had hit the ground. Frantically, John tore at his ties, not caring that Moriarty was still pressing the weapon into his forehead.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Doctor,” he heard him say. “You’ll be freed in no time, it seems.”

“If you think I’ll let you take me...” John coughed.

Moriarty laughed “And how would you stop me? No, we’re not going anywhere. You’re in luck again. The Good Samaritan Lestrade is on his way.”

The gun disappeared as Moriarty vanished into the smoke. Tense, John braced in the chair as he listened for his footsteps. Instead, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the enemy was circling around at his back.

“Don’t think you won,” the silky voice whispered in John’s ear. “Even if the dragon won’t belong to me one day, there are others who know that he’s vulnerable.”

John didn’t fall for the ensuing pause. It was clear that Moriarty hadn’t left.

“But one thing I’m sure you know,” Moriarty said. “He will never truly belong to you.”

Refusing to let him see any kind of reaction, John stared ahead and didn’t watch Moriarty’s exit through the clearing smoke. There were occasional shots somewhere at a distance, but from the unhurried clicking of Moriarty’s soles, John inferred that there was enough time to escape. Fuck! John swore inwardly. All that remained was getting someone to cut the ties as quickly as possible.

“Lestrade!” John shouted. “We’re down here! In the pool!”

His voice was already getting hoarse when he finally saw a figure appear at the top of the stairs.

“Dr Watson?” The voice removed all doubts the smoke-filled air might have left. The man really was Lestrade.

“Yes! There’s just Sherlock and me down here!”

This bit of information caused the Detective Inspector to jump down the last three steps. In his wake, another person descended, coat swishing around his legs.

The coat, John thought. So Mycroft’s here as well.

“Do you have something to cut cable ties?” John asked Lestrade when he had reached him.

“Yes, wait. An army knife.”

While his hands and legs were being freed, John watched shadows take position at the rim of the pool. Backup had arrived.

“How did you find us?” he asked, rubbing his wrists.

Lestrade gave a nervous cough and averted his eyes to Sherlock as he dealt with John’s legs. “By a lucky coincidence Mycroft Holmes guessed the meeting place. Then it was just about analysing the CCTV material to determine the van’s route.”

“Lucky coincidence? Oh fuck,” John said and painfully heaved himself out of the chair.

“Well, technically, he didn’t guess,” Lestrade explained. “It just took a little longer to decipher the encrypted message Moriarty had sent Sherlock.” He grabbed John’s shoulders to steady him – and hold him back, it seemed. “Give them a minute,” he said.

John paused, palm braced on the wall and watching the man in the dark coat kneel down on the floor to tend to the unconscious dragon. The smoke had almost cleared completely, but the soft words and the stroking of the scaly head hadn’t woken Sherlock yet.

“I can’t imagine being in his position,” John said quietly. “One wrong decision and you all but kill your little brother.”

“He thought it was the only way to help him,” Lestrade said. “And at first it looked like it would work.”

The large dark mass shrunk and changed colour in front of their eyes. Immediately, Mycroft pulled off his coat and covered Sherlock with it.

“He’d do anything to go back in time and change his decision,” Lestrade said. “But that wouldn’t make things better, you know?”

“I’m not sure…” John started.

“No!” Lestrade interjected and John saw him shaking his head vehemently. Eagerly, John waited until Lestrade continued, but his eyes were fixed on the brothers and he pinched his lips. “You have to believe it,” Lestrade said at last. “ _Someone_ has to!”

The elder brother helped the younger one up and buttoned up the coat. Yet even from the distance, John could see the exact moment when Sherlock started to fully process what was going on – when his eyes lost the slightly vacant look upon finding John’s, and when Mycroft was forgotten and Sherlock dashed through the pool to almost sweep John from his feet with his embrace.

Patiently, John let himself be manhandled against Sherlock’s chest. That’s my share in happiness. _And mine alone!_ flitted through his mind, and the strange coat and unfamiliar smell were mere fleeting impressions. As if his eyes wanted to take in more of this memorable moment, they opened and he glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder – only to look away again, shutting out the scepticism with which Mycroft viewed the scene.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bear hug for SneakyMeezer and her beta skills! You turned my tame Moriarty into the baddie he deserves to be :)


	21. Epilogue

Leaning in the kitchen doorway, John watched the sun streaming in through the window, highlighting the sulking, extremely frustrated detective lounging on the sofa. _An entire weekend, and half a day. This has to be some kind of record,_ he mused. Rejecting Sherlock’s advances hadn’t been easy and at some point on Sunday morning, the flimsy excuses had lost their impact. Cooking, taking clothes to the drycleaner’s – there was only so much that had to be done in the household.

 _Sherlock’s face when I said I had to take a nap and relax from all the job interviews in the previous weeks. It was priceless!_ John thought and grinned. Although finding a surgery that was desperate enough to accept his terms hadn’t been very easy indeed, and fitting it into his new life would be an entirely different matter – even with reduced hours.

On the other hand, giving up medical practice completely would be quite risky, although with Sherlock’s detective work gaining pace, there was the chance that what had seemed like a crazy idea a couple of months ago would pay the bills in the near future. Fortunately, Sherlock had come to terms with the fact that Moriarty wasn’t stupid enough to leave a trace. It had taken weeks to convince him to give up the idea that everyone crossing his path intended some kind of foul play or was part of a great scheme, and slowly, the freelance detective agency was taking shape. And the increased public attention they got because of some rather high profile cases was good, Mycroft had decided. A public figure like the famous detective Sherlock Holmes would cause a stir if he disappeared, and only the dragon aspect hadn’t become known yet.

Yet saying goodbye to Barts was a lot harder than he had thought.

“Well, it seems my colleagues are really sad to see me go,” John said. “Mike had tears in his eyes today.”

Sherlock hunched up further, tucking up his knees, his dressing gown falling open to reveal his pyjama bottoms. “How touching,” he sneered and John suppressed a grin. The dry spell was taking its toll. At first Sherlock had been incredulous, but now he could barely contain his fury.

 _Understandable, really._ John himself was feeling agitated after keeping himself back from doing what he had desperately wanted to do for the entire weekend. Touch, undress… _something_!

 _Wrong!_ John ordered his treacherous hands. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. Patience was crucial and would eventually get him what he wanted. He calmly walked to his chair and sat down. Broaching the topic needed some consideration and his farewell at the hospital had provided him with the perfect segue.

“It was actually quite moving,” John said. “And I met Molly as well.”

“Of course.”

Even after all these months, Sherlock didn’t have the jealous undertone under control. Still glowering at the back of the sofa he had been focusing on the entire time, he refused to meet John’s eyes.

“She asked if we’d gone all the way already,” John continued and Sherlock’s face darkened immediately. “She became beet red – it was quite adorable.”

The anger that surrounded Sherlock became an almost tangible aspect of the air, but John stifled his urge to appease him.

“I told her no, although I’m quite sure it isn’t far off,” he said instead.

It took just a fraction of a second for all the events of the weekend to fall into place for Sherlock. Incensed, he snapped upright.

“That’s why you’ve refused to touch me?” he shouted. “To make me desperate? To force me to comply with that madness?”

John’s fingers dug into the armrest. _Don’t panic!_ He ordered himself when Sherlock strode across the room and then loomed over him.

“I’m sorry that I had to resort to such measures,” John said. “But even you have to accept the fact that we can’t go on like this.”

“Oh, can’t we?” Mocked Sherlock, his breath on John’s cheek sending a shiver of anticipation through him.

 _The knowing grin, what else?_ John sighed inwardly. He shot back a stern look that would have made anyone else understand that their intentions were clear as day – a look that Sherlock ignored, as usual. He gracefully sank down on his knees in front of the armchair and gently pushed John’s legs apart. Gritting his teeth, John blocked the delicious sensations the fingers stroking up his thighs and over his crotch elicited.

“We can’t. And you bloody well know it,” he pressed out. “And don’t you dare–” he began, but it was already too late. Sherlock shrugged out of the dressing gown and impatiently pulled his t-shirt over his head. “The trousers!” John shouted the moment a ripping sound answered him and the man between his legs morphed into the dragon.

Sherlock lay his head across John’s lap and purred throatily. Instantly, the heavy head continued what the hands had started before and green eyes studied John lasciviously.

“This won’t get you anywhere today,” John rasped. _Although, to be fair, it usually does._

They had come a long way in those previous months. Gradually, Sherlock had made peace with his other form, yet there still was a line he had crossed only once – as a human.

“Damn it…” Fingers clenching on the armrests while his treacherous cock was pursuing a goal of its own, John fought the sensations that always made him want to crawl out of his skin. _Not now!_

As if he had realised that he needed to change tactics, Sherlock reverted back to a now stark naked man, a sight that didn’t do anything to quell John’s heightened state of arousal.

“We can’t go on like this, don’t you see?” John asked. “It’s unbearable.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Is it?” he mocked.

“Yes, it is!” John stated with conviction. “Just tell me, what did you do yesterday when you were out?”

Sherlock successfully hid the guilty conscience John knew was lurking behind the façade with breezy nonchalance.

“Flying,” Sherlock answered curtly.

“Where to?” John probed and the unease on the other man’s face finally became visible.

“Inverness,” he admitted.

Trying to centre himself, John inhaled and rubbed his temples, but neither action could calm him down. “Now face it already!” he growled. “It’s eating us up! And I’m not only talking about me and the fact that if we keep up this amount of sex, my frail human constitution will surely give in one day.” Sherlock leered at him, waggling a suggestive eyebrow. “Stop that!” John commanded. “I mean, you have to fly to _Scotland_ to remain sane! How do you endure this… this incredible urge? How does it even feel?”

Sherlock evaded his gaze. “Like a thermonuclear reaction,” he said in a small voice and John reached out for the unruly mop of hair. He let his fingers stroke through the curls before gripping Sherlock’s nape and gently coaxing his head to turn and look at him again.

“That one time you… did me,” John started and then struggled for the right words. “I felt that you nearly lost your control. You were holding back, but you nearly lost it.”

“And?” Sherlock asked defiantly. “Isn’t it enough what we do instead?”

“Oh, you mean an almost painfully attractive man and a relentlessly enthusiastic dragon offering themselves to me at every possible opportunity?” John asked. “It should be, shouldn’t it?”

Sherlock strained against John’s hands to look down again. “You know how I feel about you,” he murmured.

“Yes, I do.” John briefly recalled the memory of Sherlock declaring what turned out to be his love and not – which had been John’s initial impression – his conviction that they needed to split up. For a genius, the man had no way with words sometimes. “This doesn’t mean we’re off the tight rope, you see?” John continued. “But the bond would take away all our problems.”

Sherlock leaned to the side to pick up his clothes and then pulled away abruptly. He was already halfway across the room when John’s sluggish brain caught up and drove him out of the seat. He clutched the silky fabric of the dressing gown Sherlock had thrown on again, dragging the dragon to a halt.

“Don’t you want to stop being afraid you’d lose control?” John asked. “And don’t you want to be free again? So that when I’m away for two days, you don’t need to go frolicking in the Highlands to give your energy an outlet?”

The snort John received as an answer sounded only partly amused.

“I know that I’m asking a lot of you…” John began and the words caused Sherlock to turn around at last, incredulous disbelief written all over his face.

“ _You_ of _me_?” he asked.

“Of course!” John returned. “In contrast to you, I won’t just age from the outside. I’ll be a burden to you.”

“You think it’s because of that?” Sherlock asked. “If that was the only drawback, I would do it in a heartbeat.” He gave John a small smile. “I would do it even if I could only feel the outcome for one day,” he said. When John didn’t let go of the dressing gown, his expression sobered up again. “Don’t make me do this John.” he pleaded. “It’s too dangerous.”

“But it’s worth the risk,” John protested. “I’m sure you won’t kill me.”

“If you’re lucky,” Sherlock scoffed. “But I’ll certainly hurt you.”

John shrugged. “Soldier, remember?” He smiled and stepped nearer, reaching up for Sherlock’s collar. “Please,” he whispered before he pulled down on the cloth. Hopeful that the offer of a kiss wouldn’t be rejected, John wasn’t surprised that practised lips came to meet him and eagerly engaged him in the passionate dance they interpreted anew each time.

“It can’t be reversed,” Sherlock breathed against John’s mouth.

“As if I’d ever...” John replied, drawing Sherlock nearer, hands sliding across hot skin. He felt hands on his back aligning their bodies before they greedily pulled John’s shirt from his trousers and spread across his back.

“And you... we can’t just rush...” Sherlock gasped and John needed his entire will to continue the kiss.

 _Yes!_ He rejoiced inwardly. _That’s a yes, isn’t it? It is!_

When he finally convinced himself that he hadn’t misinterpreted the words, he pulled back a little, pressing kisses along Sherlock’s cheeks. “You forget that I’m a doctor,” he said and smirked at Sherlock’s bewildered face. “I’ve had enough time. I’m ready when you are.”

“Now?” Sherlock asked.

Deciding that the time for explanations was over, John slipped free of their embrace and tugged the dragon by the hand to Sherlock’s bedroom. After a surprisingly big bed had come out of storage, it had withstood quite a bit of action, so the hint should be clear.

John had not yet crossed the threshold when he was clasped in Sherlock’s arms once more. Searching John’s face, he didn’t try to hide his concerned frown.

“And you are sure?” Sherlock asked.

“Absolutely,” John answered without missing a beat. He used the ensuing silence to study the many expressions flitting over Sherlock’s face – minute glimpses of the complex inner life he revealed to no one else but John. However, when the arms around him let go and Sherlock took a step back, John feared the decision had been taken against his favour.

“Then we do this properly,” Sherlock said and straightened, but before he could start whatever speech he prepared to give, John was surprised by Sherlock closing the gap between them. The force of Sherlock’s advance pressed him into the wall and the agile tongue claimed his mouth with such abandon that John’s mind blanked under the intensity of the onslaught.

“Sorry, I digress,” Sherlock mumbled before he broke the kiss entirely and shuffled backwards. “This is a bit overwhelming.”

With some difficulty, John came back to reality and then waited for Sherlock to finish his mental struggle _. He looks almost... nervous?_

“John,” he started, and needed to clear his throat once more. “John Hamish...”

“Where did you get _that_ from?” John blurted out. “I never told you my middle name!”

The cheeky smile made Sherlock resemble more his usual self again, but it was replaced by such a serious expression that John’s mind only eased when nimble fingers made short work of his shirt’s buttons.

“John Hamish Watson, you are about to offer your life to me,” Sherlock began and then paused to kiss a path down John’s throat. “You are prepared to have your physical integrity violated to establish a bond between us. Are you sure you’re in possession of your mental faculties?”

A bite on his earlobe prompted a surprised gasp before John could answer. “If you go on like that, I might lose them in a minute,” he grumbled. His shirt was pulled over his head and the moment his vision wasn’t blocked any more, Sherlock’s searching eyes were fixed on him.

“I mean it, John,” he said. “Do you enter this willingly?”

“Yes!” John cried. “Of course I do! And now stop asking questions!”

Finally the fingers on his belt and fly sparked a promise of what was to come.

“Then I accept your offer,” Sherlock rasped. “And I beg your forgiveness for any pain I will cause to you and I promise I will do my utmost not to kill you.”

John snorted. “Then go ahead.” A negligible part of his brain processed the worry in Sherlock’s voice, finding nothing to compare with in its own data. After so many months of waiting and deliberating the possible dangers, there was not even a hint of doubt left.

A tug at the dressing gown made it slide off Sherlock’s frame and gave John access to the smooth skin he craved. He let his hands roam over Sherlock’s chest and around his waist to draw Sherlock nearer again, but when his intentions became clear, the fingers easing down his pants stopped in their movements. John looked up and saw Sherlock swallow visibly.

“Thank you for this gift, John,” he whispered.

“I’m a one in a million chance of a human-dragon match,” John said and smiled. “How could I let this opportunity pass?”

 _This is more like it!_ Crossed John’s mind when Sherlock bent down to engage him in a passionate wet kiss. And finally their naked bodies could meet, the feeling of flesh on flesh taking up so much of John’s concentration that he almost stumbled over his discarded trousers when Sherlock pulled him to the bed. Unceremoniously, he was pushed down on the mattress, but the protest died on his lips the moment Sherlock knelt down and went for John’s cock.

“Oh… hell,” John panted and squeezed his eyes shut. For what felt like a delicious eternity, the firm lips sucked in his hardness and only granted him an occasional reprieve, allowing the tongue to show its prowess as it licked and stroked along his length. John was trembling and beginning to fear he would let himself be carried away when suddenly the warm mouth disappeared and he was rolled over onto his belly. Still in motion, he felt the hands clasping his hips change their texture, and his skin shivered as the air was filled with the strange kind of energy he always perceived when the dragon came forth.

The long tongue found its destination at once, slithering down John’s spine to first lick across, then firmly bore its way through his entrance. John cursed the position Sherlock had manoeuvred him into as the rocking movements from the enthusiastic licking didn’t make it any easier to delay his climax. With a start he felt himself being tugged back so his stomach rested on the bed as he kneeled on the floor. Closing his eyes John clenched his fingers in the sheets and let the hot muscle continue to penetrate him and stimulate him in ways he knew nothing else could. He was gasping and moaning when suddenly the double excitement of the forked tongue was gone, and slick fingers eased in and out gently in its place. John almost screamed in frustration.

“It’s perhaps safer to start in... human form,” Sherlock said before his voice faltered. “I’m not entirely sure though.”

 _No qualms!_ John dismissed his own apprehension. “Do it!” he commanded and obediently, Sherlock withdrew his fingers. He positioned himself and slipped through the relaxed muscle, advancing slowly, inch by inch, until John couldn’t endure the hesitation any longer and pushed back.

“God, yes...” Sherlock moaned when he was sheathed to the hilt.

“I told you I did my homework,” were the last words John was able to utter and then Sherlock made full use of the carefully prepared passage. His mind drunk with delight, John rode out the hard shoves rocking him.  

“John,” Sherlock gasped after a short while. “John, I have to...”

“Then do it! Now!” John shouted and he thought he heard a mumbled apology. Any thought about it evaporated in the wake of the pain that flared up in his shoulder blade, astonishingly sharp human teeth slicing through his skin. John willed himself to stay calm, even when he felt Sherlock pull back a little, almost slipping out of him completely, and the air fizzed with the dragon’s energy.

The large mouth now snatched John’s entire shoulder, canines entering the flesh and masking the discomfort he felt from the dragon’s penis’s tip as it filled and stretched him. John moaned as the dual sensations began to overload his brain, shivering and trembling in Sherlock’s firm grasp. Desperately, John clung on to the bed sheets when the pain in his shoulder became excruciating.

 _Breathe,_ he ordered himself. _Relax!_

The large phallus pushed in yet another of its bumpy sections, pressing down on John’s prostate with such firmness that he thought he would pass out at any moment. Pain and pleasure formed such an overpowering alliance that even the minute movements of the penis were almost too much to bear. And the heat... _the heat!_ Shot through John’s mind, and the second he recognised the telling sign, Sherlock came with a growl, releasing John’s shoulder at once. The hardness drew back as well and just the tip remained, pumping out semen until John felt the hot liquid trickling down his legs.

Overwhelmed by sensation John lay on the bed trying to focus. He felt strange – as if Sherlock had transformed although he was still the dragon. As if his mind had seized his body the moment the bond was sealed.

Relieved, John sensed the pressure on his sphincter cease when the round tip shrunk back to a spent human penis and slipped out. Hands still clenched in the bed sheets, he tried to pull himself up onto the mattress, but Sherlock pressed a palm on his back to keep him from moving.

“I don’t think you’re torn,” he said and carefully examined the puckered skin of John’s entrance before helping John heave himself up onto the bed.

“Although it was quite a ride,” John said and grinned at Sherlock, whose concerned look didn’t vanish. He reached for tissues and dabbed John’s shoulder with them.

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt much,” John said. He wiped some blood from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth with his thumb and embarrassed, Sherlock froze in his movement.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “It was necessary to focus the dragon’s attention on something else and I assumed that your… flesh would hold enough appeal.”

“It’s all right,” John reassured him.

“It’s not.” Sherlock straightened and got up. Too groggy to do the same, John watched him hurry out of the room

 _He’ll be back,_ John reckoned and paused. He searched for the insecurity that had gripped him now and then, like at the weekend, when the nagging voice at the back of his head had almost driven him insane. But now there was nothing. Just the knowledge that whatever happened, Sherlock would return to him – _and there he is already,_ John thought.

“Roll onto your side, please,” Sherlock said and knelt on the bed. He opened the first aid kit from the bathroom that he had brought with him and then purposefully continued cleansing the wound. This time, the prickling sensation revealed that he had drenched the bandage in antiseptic lotion.

“You’re rather well equipped for a dragon,” John joked when the burning abated. Sherlock smirked and pressed a dressing gently onto the wound.

“Mrs Hudson never really believed in my ability to keep you in one piece,” he said and tugged carefully at John’s shoulder to make him roll on his back again. “She chose her housewarming gift wisely, it seems.”

Sherlock paused, jaw visibly clenching as he stared down at John’s shoulder. Leaning forward he began cleaning the bite marks on John’s clavicle, placing his other hand tenderly on John’s chest as he knelt next to him.

“What’s wrong?” John asked. “It can’t be that bad. What you’re doing doesn’t hurt much.”

Sherlock didn’t answer and just stared at the patch of skin he had freed from the blood.

“I nearly hit the carotid,” he said with a frown.

“I told you that you wouldn’t kill me,” John said and this woke Sherlock from his reverie at last. Hurriedly he stuck the dressing down on the skin, but finishing his work didn’t make the knitted brows relax.

“John, you don’t understand,” he said with a distant look. “After I changed, I _went_ for your throat. I missed the artery by chance.”

John inhaled. “Well, that’s your opinion because I know that you _wanted_ to miss. The human set the mark and the dragon just followed, remember?” he declared after a while. Sherlock shook his head doubtfully, and pressed his fingers on the side of the dressing to make it stick properly.

“Shit!” John hissed when the pain flared up again.

“I may have chipped the bone,” Sherlock said quietly. “You should have it x-rayed tomorrow.”

“I’ll better let someone else than Mike do that,” John joked, trying to lighten the mood. “Otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“You should take this seriously,” Sherlock said. “Those are deep wounds.”

“They served a purpose, okay?” John retorted. “And honestly, they didn’t feel that terrible when you tended to them.” John was glad to see a small smile at last. The solemn atmosphere had slowly been eating away his confidence.

“Of course not,” Sherlock said. “Because _I_ took care of them.”

“So apart from being clever day in, day out, you’re an excellent nurse as well?” John huffed out a laugh.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock answered and packed away the medical kit. “But a more probable cause is that I had the perfect anaesthetic. Because from now on, every time I touch you, it will feel like this...”

A hand started trailing up John’s side and he nearly flinched at the unusual intensity of his skin’s reaction.

“What is…?” He gasped for air, but his mouth was sealed with Sherlock’s. The metallic trace of residual blood announced the tongue, and each insistent probing galvanised a myriad of nerve-endings, rekindling John’s arousal with astonishing speed. Much too soon for his liking it retreated, but before he could object Sherlock began kissing his way down John’s body until the purposeful lips found a better goal.

“God… yes!” John moaned, when at the tip of his cock more sensations accumulated than his brain could handle. A lingering swipe of the tongue over the sensitive glans almost made him come apart, yet Sherlock kept him on the edge, teasing him mercilessly.

“Enough... payback,” John rasped. He felt his body slacken, a helpless, quavering mass that just reacted to the unbearably pleasant ministrations. “Sherlock, please!” he begged and what felt like an electric storm brushed over his skin – _the dragon’s taken over!_

Slithering along his legs first the long tongue gently licked John’s thighs until he was shivering and gasping while avoiding the place John wanted it most. John could dimly hear himself cursing and pleading before Sherlock’s long tongue hesitantly wormed its way around John’s length. Like a luscious noose it ensnared each inch, the gentle squeezes and heat sending John spiralling, and it just needed a light strengthening of the grip for his world to fall apart in bliss. Foregoing the need to breathe, he let his orgasm snatch him away, wild lust propelling him to even greater heights as he came, until the manic excitement died down. A degree of unprecedented satisfaction made his body so heavy that John had the impression he was sinking deeper into the mattress.

“That was... new,” he breathed. Green eyes laughed at him and at John’s insistent tugging, Sherlock climbed on the bed to let John stroke his head. He snuggled closer, wrapping himself around John, and gently licking both shoulders. _Now I have parallel scarring, how fitting_ , John smiled to himself. Each shoulder would be a reminder of the unpredictable turns his life had taken, and the choices he had made.

A wing covered him to pull him nearer and John leaned into the strong frame of the dragon. Sherlock had been right. This connection... it was different to what had been there before. To feel it for just a day, an hour even, would have been worth it.

Moriarty’s words or Mycroft’s look – they didn’t sting anymore because all along, John had been convinced that their claims were wrong.

And finally he knew it for sure.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story wouldn't have been possible without my wonderful betas, first of all sockeyhoccer, who helped me through such an enormous amount of chapters! You rock!  
> Then, of course, thanks go to the priceless snogandagrope who supported me during the first chapters, and, last but not least, SneakyMeezer, who heaved me over the finish line with her brilliance.   
> Without betas like you, us non-natives would be truly lost. Thanks so much for your selfless help!


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